Beers and Strippers
by TriXter21
Summary: Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Sometimes love is found in the most unlikely of places...and sometimes it's lost in the worst of them. Faberry.  Set the start of S2, AU onwards.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **1/Many.

**Pairing:** Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry.

**Rating:** T to M (And I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M)

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer:** This...will not be a fun ride. I would like to warn you, before you start reading, so that you do not inevitably hate me more than necessary later on down the ride. This story is also primarily Quinn-centric and, in being so, is Faberry-centric. This story is told from a very specific, stylistic perspective. If you do not like it? That's a shame. Haters to the left. Enjoy.

I'm not about to regal you with a long-winded story about the origin of this story. It formed around a singular moment-as all things do-but...it developed and evolved, as all things do, as well. It's very much taken a life of its own. Simply? The premise for this story? Witches can be right. Giants can be good. You decide what's right. You decide what's good. Russell Fabray is both a Giant and a Witch. Quinn Fabray is a small girl who never knew any different.

* * *

><p>It had been really good, for a while.<p>

Judy would be sweet and gentle. She would tuck Quinn in at night because she never had the chance when she was a child. Living with Judy Fabray was like getting the childhood never had (only it totally really wasn't and she didn't tuck her in as much as she'd kiss her forehead every night, but still).

Sure, it was awkward at first, since Quinn never _had _a mother, really, and now she suddenly did. But it was...kind of nice, after the first couple of months.

It was kind of nice...even if it was a little awkward, sometimes.

Quinn was running every day and working harder than she ever did. Rachel stopped by her house and they honestly _talked _about all those things people tend to not talk about and shove under rugs—like why Shelby and why Sydney-Beth (Puck wasn't the only one who had thought of names) and why _me—_and there was a truce.

Quinn still dreamed of her baby every night, but she no longer dreamed of her baby not able to eat because she's a sixteen year old who dropped out of high school to keep her girl, which is what she dreamed of for practically nine months straight. Quinn still looked in the mirror and her eyes teared up at stretch marks, but the fat dropped faster, this time. Quinn still stiffened every time her mother talked to her, but she no longer had to look over her shoulder for smashing glass or yelling or _anything. _

After Rachel left, a month into summer, Quinn shut off her phone and ran—ran harder than she ever had—and didn't turn it on again.

It was looking up—it was looking _right—_Quinn Fabray would be back in no time. She had a plan. She had a route of _action_.

It was really, really good, for a while.

Looking in the mirror, a school so close she can taste it and a strategy in mind, Quinn Fabray never looked better.

And then Russel Fabray died.

–

Quinn remembers when she was little, her father wrapping her up in his arms and pressing the gentlest of kisses against her cheek. She remembers the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when she presented him with his father's day gift when she was five years old. It was a sloppily glued-together picture frame of Popsicle sticks her whole class made together; Quinn remembers liking that picture frame more than the ceramic pot she painted for her mommy because when she gave it to her father she really, really wanted him to be proud. Inside was a picture of her Daddy at church (a picture they'd taken right before a post-communion barbeque) with the edge of his eyes crinkled and a haphazard smile on his face. She remembers he called her pumpkin and swiftly lifted her up and twirled her, eyes alive and dancing.

She barely remembers laughing and she can't, for the life of her, remember her mother or her sister being there. She thinks it's kind of sad that her father took that from her, too. The only happy memory she can remember of him and he won't even let her mother be there, for her; because her mother and her sister are all she has left, now. Well, her mother is, anyway.

She remembers the way the frame cracked shamelessly against the ground, three years later, when her dad hit her for the first time. She'd gotten a B on a math test because she'd had the flu. She coughed all the way through the test and had such a bad headache, phlegm sliding up her throat, that she remembers with startling clarity that she could barely read the test. She remembers _that_, but she doesn't remember anything else about that night except for the way the frame shattered against the floor.

Her father had kept the frame on his bedside dresser, proudly, for all of that time, and Quinn remembers that she had tried so hard—so hard—to make him proud so that he'd put another picture of hers on his dresser. He never did.

She can barely remember the way his hand felt, hard against her face, but she knows she felt it more often than any other little girl should have. She was scared of her father, then, a little shaking small girl with wide, crying eyes and a flu.

She hates that, looking down at him, now, she still is.

Quinn's fingers clench at her sides, teeth shaking and rocking, as she thinks that her father's eyes used to crinkle up when he smiled the same way they did when he was angry. She hates that she can't remember her mother when her father was happy, but there's a clear, seared image of her in her mind as the sound of her father's _loving _hand hit her and shook her and maimed her in more ways than one.

She wants to look at her mother and think that she tried to stop him—and maybe she did, at first—but she can't remember it happening and doesn't know if she wants to remember _anything _about Russell Fabray, anymore.

She's not strong enough to spit on her father's face like part of her wants to; she's never been strong enough to stand up to her omniscient father.

He clothed her, put a roof over her head until it suited him, and Quinn _hates _herself for being so torn—for still loving the small, tiny piece of the man whose eyes crinkled—for still trying to seek his approval.

Somewhere, behind her, Mr. Silverstein is watching next to two fathers of a girl she knows too well, and her mother is _crying_, and there are so many people that have been _helped _that she doesn't know what to do, anymore.

She decides enough is enough and abruptly turns on her heel, gaze on the floor, and goes to the bathroom, hands clenching on the marble of the sink as she stares into her own hollow eyes. The sight of herself makes her vehemently wrench around and spill the few contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl behind her, the sound of the door opening and closing lost in her desperation.

She's really not all that surprised to feel Rachel Berry's fingers hastily running through her hair, pulling it back, shushing her with kind words she's never deserved. The familiar scent of vanilla and lavender hits Quinn like a train, mixing unnaturally with the foul stench below her. She wipes her mouth on her arm and closes her eyes.

Quinn thinks it should be a relief to lose the father that was never really a father and hates that it's not. She hates him. She honestly, truly hates him, but he was still her _father_.

That meant something, didn't it?

When Rachel pulls Quinn back and into the crook of her neck, fingers still brushing through well-kept, perfect hair, she just takes in a deep breath of air and tries hard to forget all the things she can remember before she remembers all the things she can't seem to just forget.

–

They're still sitting on the floor, an hour later, hard marble cool against the hot skin where a baby blue dress rode up. They were mostly quiet, staring at the ceiling, and Quinn's not sure why Rachel even came, in the first place, let alone took the care to rush into the bathroom after her like she wants to be there. Maybe she does, but Quinn doubts it. "You didn't have to come." Quinn whispers, knees tucked up to her chest, eyes stuck on the linoleum gray tiles below them.

Rachel shrugs. "You would have done the same for me." It's her reply, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and Quinn blinks.

"Yeah." It's like a revelation, somewhere, but she doesn't really mind it all that much. "Yeah, I would have."

It makes her kind of undeniably sad, the fact that a lot less people from Lima would go to one of Rachel's Dad's funerals when Quinn's positive that both of them, alone, are better men than Russel Fabray could ever hope to be. They'd have to be, to have a kid like Rachel, Quinn's sure of it.

Her head lolls around on her shoulders before she lets out a sigh, eyes flitting over to Rachel before she looks down at the piece of paper she's been messing with in her hands, tearing the edges off like a little girl unknowingly does with a four leaf clover. It's a funeral program. It's a marvel no one's come into the bathroom, yet, though the service is probably over. Maybe there's an usher outside, or something, warning everyone that little dead daddy's girl is in there.

She feels nauseous, again, but keeps her eyes steady.

"I hate him." She murmurs, her eyes settling on the picture of him on the program; the corner of his eyes aren't crinkling in this one. It's the first time she's admitted it out loud to anyone and she's not unnerved by the fact that it's the brunette sitting across from her, surprisingly patient and quiet. She finally meets dark eyes and the look in them makes Quinn's blood run cold.

She quickly stands up and brushes her fingers down the line of her dress to untangle imaginary wrinkles, Rachel scrambling up after her, obviously unsure of what to say. Quinn saves her the trouble.

"Thank you for coming."

It's the last thing she says before she walks out of the bathroom and leaves the service, Rachel's strained voice weakly calling out after her, Quinn honestly not caring enough to stick around for the reception.

–

Quinn has this recurring dream—she's had it ever since she went to see Lauren's second ballet recital and never _stopped _dreaming—where she's dancing on a stage, mysterious and fleeting as all dreams are. It frightens her, most nights, imbues this terror in her that she can't _trace _(because, really, she's not so sure what about them is so frightening) but it makes her understand the world, more, as well.

She's perfectly poised, back straight and hands lifted, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as her chin tucks and her breath wisps into puffs of ice about the dark room. Black—pitch-black—endless and unknowing engulfs her as she raises her knee and moves on point, ducking and contracting.

He watches her.

He always watches her.

–

It's a week later that Quinn's sitting in their house on the couch next to her mother, eyes wide and frightened. It's the second time she's been kicked out of this same house—the second time by her father, too—only it's the government doing the pushing and counting down on the clock. Effective as of 3:15 PM one Judy Fabray was served a notice of eviction due to the house being in her late husband Russell Fabray's name.

In his will, Russell Fabray emphatically bequeathed the majority of his possessions, money, and good fortune to one Nancy Grace (Quinn thought it was a joke, too, the first time she heard it but, no, that's _really _her name) his tattooed, whorish, twenty-eight year old secretary girlfriend. The rest of Russell Fabray's luxurious lifetime-earnings went to none other than young Lindsey Lauren Smith, his eldest daughter.

Judy Fabray received nothing as the signing-over of the house had, unfortunately up until that point, merely been a vocally bound agreement that no one had witnessed from a divorce that was finalized (ironically) two hours before his death.

Russell's lawyers had a field day.

Quinn was left a handful of signed (blank) checks linked to a bank-account she could not in good conscious access. It was her father's last way, she supposes, of saying that she would always owe him, no matter what.

She also finds it a little hilarious that, even from his _grave_, her father seems _hell_-bent determined on kicking Quinn Fabray's skanky little disobeying ass out of his house.

The teenager's sure that somewhere, six-feet under, eyes crinkling at the edges, Russell Fabray was assuredly telling her that she was nothing without him.

–

Two days later, school starts, and Quinn finds herself staring at herself in the mirror, no longer liking what she sees.

–

"Quinn!" Rachel's surprised gasp just makes the blonde slam her locker shut and walk away faster, really not wanting to talk. The brunette, of course, _always _wants to talk and doesn't pick up on the hint. "I...I didn't expect you to be back, so soon." She hesitantly points out, struggling to keep up with her fast pace.

Quinn says nothing. No one expected her to be back this soon. Maybe it's considered a little uncouth for your father to die on a Friday and for you to be back to school on Monday like nothing ever happened. But of course she's here; she has a _plan _and Quinn Fabray's nothing without plans. Today's the day Quinn told herself she would barge into Sue Sylvester's office and demand her position as head cheerleader back, no matter who she had to step on to get it.

She stops in front of that very office, eyes set and eyebrows furrowed, Rachel ranting about something she's not listening to at all in the background. Head cheerleader.

Does she really want it?

Rachel's still going on about songs and being happy that she's back for the new year and Quinn thinks about why she _would _want it—why she worked so hard, this summer, to get back in shape and prepared. She was going to do it to find order in a world of chaos and...Quinn feels suddenly like throwing up.

She was going to do it to make her father proud.

It's at this thought that she turns around and hits Rachel with an intense look, lips straining to pull up in what she hopes looks like a genuine smile. From the way the normally-oblivious brunette stops instantly mid-rant and looks at her like she's _scared_, Quinn thinks that it probably doesn't look very genuine. She makes a split-second decision. "What are you doing for lunch?"

Rachel blinks, obviously derailed. She probably wants to point out that it's _actually _their lunch break right now. "I..." She opens and closes her mouth once each. "I usually practice in the auditorium—"

"It's early-release, today. We don't have Glee." Quinn points out, tongue hastily dotting out to wet her lips. They post-poned their first meeting to Wednesday. No one probably expected her to be there, anyways. "Come to Breadstix with me."

The girl looks reasonably floored, eyes widening as she looks nervously from Sue Sylvester's name-plate to Quinn's face. Her fingers tighten on her books and Quinn's struck with an irrational want to reach over and smooth them out. "Alright." She says it hesitantly—a question—like a person walking around a snake with a large fear of being bitten. Regardless, Quinn nods.

"Meet me outside of the choir room, 1:00?" She waits until Rachel cautiously nods back before she walks away, clutching her books to her chest, everyone's eyes on her as she walks down the hall to sit silently in her emptied Chemistry classroom until their shortened lunch break is over, staring out the window and tapping impatient fingers on her textbook.

–

It's a really awkward day, if Quinn's honest with herself. She's as much a talk of the school now as she was when she was pregnant, and the things people are saying about her, quite frankly, are not even a speck nicer. When the final bell rings, the blonde is out of her seat fast and speeding down towards the choir room, infinitely thankful for Rachel's penchant to be early.

Quinn grabs a tan hand in hers and practically pulls her out of the school she's so ready to get the _hell _out of there. She waits until she's forced Rachel into her car and sat down in the driver's seat to finally let out a breath and look at the other girl.

"Sorry." She mumbles, watching the way brown eyes scan over her face like the blonde's about to pull out a hatchet. "I just really, really didn't want to be there, anymore."

There's a moment of silence, Rachel's eyebrows furrowing, before she asks, something odd in her voice, "But you want to be with me?"

Quinn blinks, a little speechless. Rachel's looking at her like she should know the answer to this question instantly and her mind finally catches up to her racing heart. "Yeah, I do." The smile that slowly stretches across Rachel's lips is unlike any that Quinn has ever seen before. It's soft, gentle, but the oddest: genuine. It's in this moment that Quinn realizes she's still holding her hand and drops it, keys shoving into the ignition and twisting. "Do you have a problem with that?" She prods, eyes flitting back over to that shy, small smile.

Rachel just shakes her head and leans back.

Quinn's not even all that annoyed that she hums the whole way there.

–

When they finally shuffle into the restaurant and settle into a booth, an awkward silence settles over them. Quinn mindlessly pulls out a bread stick and starts breaking it apart onto her plate, poking the pieces with her finger.

"I must admit I'm not very accustomed to making conversation in light of recent circumstances and I apologize if you find my company somewhat...lack-luster." Rachel's nervous voice hits Quinn's ears and the ex-cheerleader gives her an amused look. "I'm honestly not sure what to say."

Quinn feels the first genuine smile of all day slip across her lips. She leans back in her chair. "What would you say to me if we'd gone to lunch together, before all this?"

Rachel blinks and fusses with her hands, thinking about it for a moment and awkwardly clears her throat. "Okay, it might not just be in light of recent circumstances. I may or may not generally just _not _know how to make general conversation with you. Would you stop playing with those? You're wasting them." She reaches across the table to still her lunch mate's restless hands.

Quinn has to hold back a laugh, mirth dancing in her eyes. "What if I'm destroying these bread sticks as an outlet for my grief?" She pokes, expecting a dramatic, apologetic, and amusing reaction to come from the brunette but she's honestly surprised when it appears the other girl _knows _her better. Rachel just pulls the bread stick from her hands and takes a bite out of it.

"Well then, go take up a useless hobby like whittling. Those poor bread sticks did nothing to you." She says around a mouthful of the food, an undeniable smile on her lips and in her words.

"I'll have you know I'm a class-A whittler, thank you very much." Quinn takes another bread stick from the table but, this time, bites into it. It's the first ounce of food she's had all day. She's still not hungry. "It's what made me head cheerleader."

"And here I thought it was the fact that you were unnecessarily head-strong and freakishly pliable. I apologize for making assumptions." Rachel's eyes are light and Quinn feels better than she has in a long time under the banter, maybe before babygate—before she was eight, even.

"Right, like _you _aren't headstrong?" Quinn leans forward, lips tucking. Rachel laughs, a little, and the blonde thinks that maybe she doesn't laugh enough—maybe they _both _don't laugh enough—and she silently admits that she doesn't mind the sound.

"I never said I wasn't. I'm quite proud of the strength of my head, actually. It took years of obstinate training and stead-fast dedication to getting my way in order to get a cranium this durable." Rachel jokes, lips sliding around the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of water.

"For some reason, I don't doubt that." Quinn watches her, for a moment, eyes unreadable, before she bows her head. "See? Conversation's not that bad."

Quinn looks up and doesn't miss Rachel's happy look tilted into a spectrum of color and light through her water glass.

She smiles.

They don't talk about Finn or Glee or (thank heavens) the funeral service. They don't talk about the weather or sports—like either of them could—or anything impersonal. They share funny stories about dancing and gymnastics and music. They laugh about the time Rachel actually tripped on stage when she was nine years old and cried so hard she made _another _girl slip in the salt-water. They joke about the time Quinn accidentally walked into Coach Sylvester's office to see her wearing a gas mask and talking to a picture of a penguin, both of them not knowing what the hell happened.

They laugh and joke and act like they've been friends for years, like the hardest part was just being re-acquainted again.

When Quinn drops Rachel off at her house and quietly refuses to stay for dinner, four hours later, she wonders if maybe they _have been_.

–

Quinn comes home and lets out a small sigh of relief when she opens the door and sees her mother sitting on the couch watching television, no drink in sight. They have exactly one week to vacate the premises and Quinn hadn't been surprised to find she only had one box of things in her room—she had always lived light, it seemed, like she was always waiting on baited breath and hands for her father to kick her out—but her mother, she can only assume, has more fond memories of this place than Quinn can stomach.

She sits down next to her mother on the couch, not really bothering to look at what's on the television, and tries not to stiffen when her mother's head slowly descends to rest on her shoulder.

She's been crying—Quinn can tell by the track marks that mar her mother's normally impeccable make-up—and it's then that she smells the hint of gin gasping around the older blonde's exhale of breath.

She doesn't blame her for drinking—not really—if Quinn had been married to Russell Fabray, she would drink, too. But she does blame her for a lot of other things.

Wordlessly, Quinn breaks apart and walks up the stairs, closing her door and staring at the ceiling, one small box sitting precariously on the edge of her perfectly-made bed, wishing that she had taken up Rachel on her offer.

–

The next day Rachel greets her with the brightest smile Quinn's ever seen as she leans against her locker, right next to the blonde's. They both tend to get to school early—Quinn because old habits die hard and Sylvester used to have all of her cheerios in the field at 4 AM—and Rachel, Quinn assumes, because she does vocal warm-ups or something.

She hesitates only a second before smiling back. It's not as genuine as she wishes it was. "Were you actually _waiting _for me?" When Rachel nods Quinn has to push down the feeling swirling in her gut. It's thirty minutes until class starts and the halls are sparse.

"Well, while you're a champion whittler, I do my best to be a champion friend." Rachel says this like it's her winning phrase and Quinn stills as she takes one of her books out of her locker. She turns to the side and gives Rachel a look.

"More like champion stalker." Before, the statement might have been biting but the twinkle in Quinn's eyes takes the pain out of her words and Rachel takes a step closer, a little more confident.

"Well, I make it my goal to succeed in everything I do." She says proudly and Quinn just rolls her eyes, slamming her locker and walking towards her first class. She figures Rachel will follow her and she's right. "So...we _are_ friends, right? I was hoping you would comment on my subtle Freudian slip of the word but you're as calm as ever." Rachel's always been straight to the point but the fact that she's just said that out loud makes Quinn stop in the middle of the hallway.

When Quinn takes too long to respond Rachel, of course, just starts ranting. "I mean, we've had all of these serious Oscar-worthy touching moments and been through so much, together. Not to mention the fact that we've successfully struck up a quick repertoire—"

Quinn lifts her finger to Rachel's lip to calm her and she thinks for a moment, blue eyes skimming over hopeful brown, before she turns around and keeps walking. "Yeah, we're friends." She can see Rachel's felicitous smile out of the corner of her eye and doesn't bother fighting her own.

For the longest time, Quinn's been bouncing around lunchroom tables like a hot potato. Some days she would sit with Santana and Brittany and some days all three of them would sit with all of the Cheerios. Some days Quinn sat with Finn (when they were dating) and Puck (when they weren't because they never really did) and when she was living with Mercedes, would spend her lunch period with the larger girl and Kurt. She never really felt at place with any of them, though—even though Puck was, ironically enough, the nicest, but most days he was skipping school during lunch, anyways—so the majority of the last year, for Quinn Fabray, had been spent in the stalls of McKinnley High's restroom.

So four hours after their initial meeting, Quinn quietly slips into the auditorium room with an extra salad and a smile, sitting down next to Rachel without a word. The brunette takes the salad, her teeth biting her lip, and cautiously sits down, too.

This lunch arrangement, Quinn finds, is the best; especially since it kind of comes with a meal _and _entertainment, because Rachel is still determined to practice, companion or not.

–

It's a little easier, that day, the murmurs still there as she walks down the halls, but Quinn's starting to think maybe it all won't be _too _bad. It's only been two days, after all—not even a week into the year—and all things take time. When Santana asks if she wants to come chill for a while, the blonde readily agrees because she hasn't seen her friend nearly all summer...then again, that happens with a hectic Cheerios schedule and a schedule that's, well, currently kind of non-existent, considering the fact that Quinn _didn't _demand her spot back.

They're laying on the couch, legs tangled together, popcorn scattered everywhere, a comedy on the screen, when Santana takes a huge bite out of her piece of beef jerky and a realization smacks Quinn across the face like a fly-swatter.

Santana must notice because she turns away from the movie, half-chewed beef jerky visible as she queries, "What?"

Quinn just shakes her head. "I never congratulated you on making head Cheerio, did I?" Her voice is unsure.

Santana visibly stills and stops chewing. She finally swallows and keeps her voice even, "No, you didn't."

Quinn thinks that Santana probably expects a confrontation—some sort of bitchy move because that's what a lot of their friendship has been—but she's learned a lot of life lessons, lately, and surprises herself when she sounds honestly genuine. "Congratulations." She grabs a piece of beef jerky. "I'm proud of you."

Santana's gaping at her like she honestly can't believe what just happened but then a slow, steady, wide smile stretches across her face. Those smiles are rare, Quinn knows, so she thinks she's done something right. While their friendship has had its tough moments, they get each other more often than not—Quinn always leaned on the other girl even when she wasn't beneath her in a pyramid—and she's happy to make her smile.

"Thanks, Q." Santana's smile turns into a smirk. "I've got fat shoes to fill."

Quinn just kicks her, "Shut up or I'll tell Sylvester you've been eating beef jerky."

Fear passes over the brunette's face momentarily before she rolls her eyes, "Whatever—all the evidence will be gone. I'm just gonna throw it up, later, anyways."

"She'll probably smell it on you. I won't even need to tell her." This comment actually makes Santana's eyes go huge and she throws the beef jerky across the table like it's poison.

Quinn just laughs.

–

It's ten o'clock, laughter still ringing from her lips that same night, when Quinn comes home to an eerily quiet house. In all honesty, it's always been a quiet house, even with all of her family there at once for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but it's still a little unsettling to go from a lively, bustling house full of happy parents and a grumbling Santana to...dead silence.

For some reason it makes Quinn inexplicably angry when she goes into the kitchen and sees her mother. She stands there, fuming, fingers clenching, before it finally—_finally—_happens.

"Mom...you have to stop drinking." Quinn finally grinds out, feeling like the words are too foreign for _her _to be saying them. Her mother is standing in front of the counter, an open bottle of _who the hell cares what _next to her, mouth open and eyes hollow. Quinn has never felt close enough to her mother to actually care about her drinking, but for some odd reason she's started, and she idly wonders if maybe she'd cared all along.

Maybe it's her mother's broken eyes that make her finally realize it.

Maybe it's the way her mother looks at her, now, like she's actually her _mother_ and that Quinn maybe, actually, really _did _come from her womb.

Maybe Quinn's just tired of throwing bottles upon bottles out, in the morning, and helping her mother up into her bed after she's spent all day pointed at and gossiped about and accused.

Maybe it's the fact that Quinn's realistic. They have to move out—she has to find work—they have to _figure this out_ and her mother has to stop _drinking_.

Maybe it's the way that sometimes, when her mother drinks, all she can think about is the way those words left her mother's mouth—_you're a mistake._

Either way, her mother looks startled—shaken, even—eyes wide like she's been caught in bed with another man by a partner who she never knew loved her.

After her mother's yelp—_I don't have a problem!-_Quinn just sucks in a breath. She expects it to go like it does in the movies or like in one of the pamphlets that she stole out of Miss Pillsbury's office at the start of the week when she was politely informed she would have to start attending mandatory "grief counseling" visits—for her mother to scream that she didn't have a problem and toss the bottle into the sink, glass shattering everywhere—and it does, a little...but only for a second. Judy Fabray's mouth opens like she's about to scream and Quinn instantly tenses, her eyes slamming shut, because Judy only screamed when she was about to _kill_ someone, and the younger blonde holds her breath and _hates _herself, a little, when she feels tears prick at her eyes.

But then...nothing comes.

Quinn hesitantly opens one eye to see her mother standing there, bottle clung tightly in one of her hands, eyes so wide that she thinks her mother's had an aneurism. She's already grabbing her phone and about to call 911 when Judy simply puts the bottle down and turns around, a whisper that Quinn never hears on her lips.

Quinn's shocked and she takes a tenuous step forward, legs screaming at her to just run and never come back, but she finally hears what her mom says.

"I don't know how." It's so broken that Quinn has to blink, a little, remembering that this _is _her mother, and she does the strangest thing she ever has: she lays a hand on her mother's shoulder.

"You don't have to do it on your own." Quinn whispers, eyes seeking her mother's reassuring ones, knowing foreign tears are at the edges. "I'm here to help you."

Judy tenses and Quinn, for a moment, thinks that if it were Russel, he would simply spit that he doesn't need help and slap Quinn so hard she couldn't breathe. Quinn thinks that if it were her, she would say the same thing and give herself such a glare that she couldn't walk; Judy isn't her horrible ex-husband or her despicable, unloving daughter, however, and her hand is shaking when it clasps over pale fingers on her shoulder.

There's a moment of tense silence before Quinn moves her other hand to rest on her mother's unoccupied shoulder, voice weak, "There's a...there's meetings down 75 by Troy. I used to go there for a little while...after..." The name 'Sydney Beth' still feels too fresh on Quinn's lips for her to utter it. "I only went there once but Puck's gone a couple of times and he's always offered to go." She clears her throat, shaking her head, trying to not let her own grief seep into her voice. She tries not to think about how she's been avoiding Puck ever since the summer began, more than a little frightened he might ask her to go, again. "They have AA meetings every Tuesday and Thursday and..."

"I don't know if I'm ready for—"

"I'll go with you." Quinn's adamant and she's not sure where all this strength, this excitement brewing in her gut, came from. "I'm not sure if that's protocol or anything for these things. I can sit outside. I might even..." Her throat closes up at this, the thought of going to a meeting and _talking _about the daughter she lost, "I can sit outside." She's more resolute. "You don't have to do this alone."

Judy Fabray turns around in her daughter's arms, not untangling their hands, but does bring her other hand up to cup her cheek. "What did I do to deserve you?" It sounds almost like _I never should have let you go _and Quinn tries not to think about it or let it show that her throat feels like it's _closing_ right now.

"Come with me tomorrow and you'll find out." Is all she says, instead, and Judy just nods and smiles weakly before her daughter leans over and empties the bottle of vodka into the sink.

It's a start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **2/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

* * *

><p>The poker chip Judy Fabray clenches to in the palm of her hand like Quinn clenches the cross around her neck, sometimes, is the most reverently held thing the proud (and somewhat disbelieving) daughter has ever seen her mother clutch. The ride home is silent and Quinn doesn't even complain about how boring it totally was sitting outside an AA meeting for three hours (nervously eying the pamphlet on the other side of the wall for mothers who lost their children the entire time) because Judy's smile is so wide.<p>

Quinn quietly offers as they eat their take out in the too-empty dining room to make it into a necklace for her mother.

Judy Fabray just picks up her plate, moves around the large table, and sits next to her, hesitating only a moment before she cups Quinn's shoulder in her palm in appreciation.

–

Emma Pillsbury nervously re-arranges her desk and Quinn watches with little fascination, eyes bored and fingers tapping against her knees.

"So, Quinn." The counselor tries, hands clasping as she leans her elbows against the desk. "While these counseling sessions are mandatory, I would still like to say that I heavily appreciate your participation and am only here to listen—not to pressure." This is their first visit of the year and is starting a wondrously _long _tradition of one a week for the rest of Quinn's junior (and potentially senior) year. Joy.

Quinn's not really sure what to say or do, so she shrugs awkwardly and nods, eyes still watching Ms. Pillsbury's fingers. "Thank you."

There's a long silence and long, meticulously manicured fingernails start to tap together across from hazel eyes.

"So how has your time back been?" The redhead finally asks, eyes wide and inquisitive, as lost as Quinn thinks she might be. Neither of them really want to be here, the teenager imagines.

"Fine." She half-lies. It's better than being pregnant, but not much better, and at least she has somewhere to sit at lunch. She isn't waddling, either, so that's a plus, but she doesn't think Ms. Pillsbury needs to be aware of this—the majority of the school is privy enough to the fact that she's heartless.

"Just...fine?" Fingers tap and eyes roam. At least she's aware that she's lying; good, they don't just give degrees to _anyone_.

And then Quinn remembers that Sue Sylvester has eight doctorates. Her lips purse.

"Yes, fine." Quinn's poise is perfect, eyes alert but hollow, and she isn't fidgeting nearly as much as the counselor across from her.

"How is home?" The counselor's at least blunt. Quinn blinks. She thinks of her mother and her non-existent sister and, oh yeah, dead father. A lease hanging over their heads. Debt.

"Fine."

At least she isn't living in her car like last year.

Or sporting a broken arm.

Quinn wonders how the pseudo-teacher gets her nails like that. Do they teach that somewhere?

Emma Pillsbury sighs and looks down at her list of pamphlets, looking to find one that will make this easier on her. She must finally settle on two because she passes a green one with a bit of a 50's motif over and a red one with a field of flowers.

The red one's kind of normal: "Grieving as a Family". Stupid, but normal. The green one, though, is more than a little absurd.

It's eloquently titled, "So Your Father Died..."

There's a picture of a kid bawling his eyes out on the front of it.

Quinn tries not to roll her eyes, instead just leaning back in the chair and praying the time will magically speed up so she can get out of here.

–

Quinn thinks it's nice to mindlessly be _wanted _somewhere, because every time she shows up at the auditorium for lunch, Rachel always looks so _happy _to see her. It's only been their second day of eating together, but the blonde thinks she could get used to such a happy greeting, so she decides to do it every day until Rachel stops looking at her like she wants her to be there.

It's also a little unnerving, though, how nice it feels to have Rachel Berry smiling at her that way.

Quinn's also not really sure why Finn doesn't show up to the auditorium since the two are dating. For a couple that madly professes their love every chance they get, it seems a little awkward to the blonde.

"Rachel?" She decides to go ahead and ask—broach the subject they've seemingly silently promised not to broach—and bites the bullet. "Where's Finn?" The brunette instantly freezes mid-way between grabbing the peace offering of Quinn's extra salad. Her shoulders slump and Quinn rolls her eyes. "Take the salad, Rachel. I ask with no sense of nefarious plot in the back of my mind—I'm just curious."

Rachel gives her a look like she's about to call bullshit before she sighs and grabs the salad. "He sits with his football friends at lunch." The way she says it—so matter-of-fact-ly, like that's what he _should _be doing—kind of makes Quinn a little annoyed.

"Yeah, well, Finn's an idiot." That, at least, is undeniable fact. "_He _should be sitting here in this auditorium with you, not tossing around hotdogs with a bunch of meat heads." It comes out oddly...protective and she tries not to notice the way Rachel's smile tucks up at the edge. Rachel's looking at her with this kind of pleasantly surprised look before it turns _knowing_ and Quinn just takes a bite out of her sandwich.

There's a long moment of silence, Rachel opening the box of salad and digging in, before she quietly whispers, "I like eating lunch with you more, anyways."

Quinn can't wipe the smile off of her face for the rest of the day.

–

Quinn's not she wants to tell Rachel what's happened with her mom—not sure why she wants to talk to a girl she's barely friends with more than she wants to talk to a counselor...or anyone, for that matter—but there's no point dwelling. She bites her lip and keeps it tucked.

–

It's Friday, two days until eviction, when Quinn finally lets it hit her that her father's really _gone_. She knew that it wouldn't hit her instantly—life doesn't really work like that—but she doesn't think it's fair that it hits her like it does.

She walks into Glee club and sits down next to Santana (she actually would have sat next to Rachel if Finn wasn't sitting there and that's just _awkward_) ignoring the glib comment the head Cheerio makes when she jokes with Rachel before sitting down. Puck is sitting behind her, something crude on his lips, and Quinn even lets herself smile at him, their eyes connecting and dancing.

Schuester walks in, writes something on the board, and that's when it happens; approximately three minutes and forty-two seconds into Glee, Artie makes a stupid joke about _Popsicle sticks_, of all things.

Quinn's always prided herself on her self-control, but it's like she's suddenly found herself in a tunnel. All she can think of is her father's face when she gave him that Popsicle Father's Day frame. All she can think of is the way that it crashed against the wooden floor as his hand wrapped around her wrist like a boa constrictor.

All Quinn can think is that her father's _dead_.

She vaguely remembers Ms. Pillsbury muttering and rambling about something like _triggers _or something and maybe this is one of them—maybe she'll never be able to eat ice cream, again, without thinking of her father—and it kind of sucks that he's ruined _that, _too. Everyone should get to eat ice cream, right?

The rest of Glee has all moved on, of course, joking and laughing, but as soon as Quinn gets enough time to focus, she covers her mouth with her hand, barely manages to excuse herself, and bolts out of the room because she can't _be _there, right now.

She doesn't really hear the flurry of confused and (mostly) concerned shouts after her. She doesn't notice both Rachel and Santana shoot up, about to race after her, because Puck's the only one that _knows—_Puck's the only one that Quinn quietly confessed to about her father, so many nights ago, because they thought they might be parents and Quinn knew Puck would _understand—_and he's rushing after her before anyone else can even think to.

He catches up to her barely outside the door, far enough away to where no-one can see them, but they can unfortunately hear if they strained. Quinn doesn't care.

Puck's arms are strong, tight, as he holds her struggling body.

"Let me go!" She yells, but he just holds her tighter. She fights harder than she ever fought her father, but Puck is still strong and cares more than her father probably ever did. "Let me go." She moans it this time but he's relentless. "Please." The tears are falling, now, and she hates that he can see them.

"I'm here." Is all he says, eyes strong and deep, and she cries harder, tongue twisting and emotion hitting her when it has no _right _to.

"I don't _want _you to be!" She snarls, hitting his chest. His grip loosens for barely a moment before it tightens. "It's not _fair_, Puck!" Quinn exclaims, fingers clenching in his jacket like he's the only thing keeping her up. "It's not _fair_!"

"I know, baby momma, I know." He says it like he does.

"It's not fair." It's not. She shouldn't cry—not over _him_—not over some stupid five year old girl's shattered hopes and dreams. She doesn't love her father.

She doesn't.

So why does she _care_?

"I know." Maybe he does.

"It's not _fair_." She's sobbing, now, and he just wraps his arms around her like he has a right to. She's crying _I hate you_ against Puck's chest, tears staining his white wife beater and making his flesh visible in the florescent lights above them, and she knows that she doesn't mean Noah Puckerman more than anyone else in the world might. Puck, though, must know that, too.

"Shh, Quinn." He smoothes out her hair, holding her tightly against his chest, words gentle. "I've got you."

She can _feel_ Rachel and Santana standing at the edge of the Glee door, probably concerned, and it makes her knees weak, makes her wish she could just get _over _it. She wishes it didn't affect her at all. So she buries her face further in his chest and begs him, "I don't want to be here."

He nods wordlessly and lovingly guides her out to his truck.

They end up parked (illegally) in front of a rock-mining ravine, sitting on Puck's hood like they used to when they watched the stars in front of his house—Puck the silent stoic figure as Quinn just sits there, staring. She looks over at him and bites her lip, tears dried, by now, her hand loving as she moves it up his bicep and squeezes.

"I'm sorry." She quietly admits because, even if part of her hates him a little for knocking her up, he's still the one person in the world that knows more about her than anyone else ever has. He's still the only person who's ever cared enough to even try. She hates him...but she kind of loves him, too. "I'm sorry I pushed you away." Her voice is weak but honest and she misses him more in this moment than she ever has.

He looks at her and nods, grabbing her hand and twining their fingers. He understands, she thinks, but he's too much like her to say so, so he switches the topic, instead.

Unlike with Rachel sitting across from her at Breadstix, their stories are melancholy and with a twist of sadness, but there's always this underlining _understanding _that brews from being through so much, together. Puck tells Quinn about what it was like after his Dad left, and Quinn tells Puck about her Mom's first night at AA, remembering vividly how she was so nervous and looked so broken.

As the sun sets, they finally get back into the truck, Quinn feeling a lot like everything is...better, somehow.

"So your Mom's..." Puck's hesitancy is never a good sign for a conversation, so Quinn just shakes her head and lets out a harsh breath.

"Trying." She insists. "My mom's trying."

Puck's hand tenses on the steering wheel but Quinn's grateful to find that he doesn't say anything after that. She looks at him from the corner of her eye, a thought crossing dangerously around the edge of her mind.

She wonders if she's going to regret this.

"We need help moving and we could really use your truck..." She mumbles, eyes practically glued to her own fingernails. She can still see Puck's small, content, and _relieved _smile slip across his lips out of the corner of her eye and she fights down her own, resolute.

"Consider me at your mercy, Baby Mama." His voice is almost _bedazzled _and Quinn tries not to moan.

"Shut up, Puck."

Thankfully, he does.

The ride back to McKinnley is quiet...but halfway there the smile never leaves Quinn's face. He shyly asks her if she wants him to follow her back to her house, hands stuffed in his pockets, and the blonde looks him up and down once before she nods.

When they get there, she invites him to dinner and it's a little awkward—Puck sitting at the table with Judy and Quinn and him, she assumes, trying to think of something respectful and totally not pornographic to say—but it's actually nicer. It feels a little more like home.

She's a little shocked when Judy _tries _but she's happy for it, and even happier when her mother looks excited to have help moving.

Puck walks her up to her room and eyes her _one _box in the corner, but doesn't say anything because, Quinn figures, Puck knows _all too well_.

The blonde hugs him for a moment like she doesn't want to let go and Puck hugs back.

"We can totally do this friend thing, right?" Puck asks into her shoulder and Quinn lets out a sigh of relief, a shy smile slipping onto her lips. "Because I know you don't want to _be _with me, but you're, like, important to me and shit, Q."

"We can totally do this friend thing." She supplies, eyes dancing as she leans up and kisses him on the cheek. "Thank you."

She hates the boy that lied to her and knocked her up and pretty much sexually abused her and took advantage of her...and she hates that she loves the man—the _friend_—that's in front of her now.

"Anytime." He nods, gives her one last look, and leaves. Quinn feels a lot easier laying on her bed, staring up at the blank ceiling, with Puck's truck whirring to a start right outside her window.

–

It's a little awkward the next morning over breakfast when Judy clears her throat and asks a question that nearly makes Quinn choke on her glass of orange juice. During the AA meeting, it was apparently suggested that the members (Judy) spend more time with their families eating meals—no television or stuff like that—so the older Fabray had made it her goal to eat respectable meals with her youngest daughter. Start slowly.

Unfortunately, breakfast for both of them did not consist of much, and their conversation has now turned horrendously unseemly.

"So...that young fidgeting man, last night..." Judy drawls in a way that says '_you know, the one that got you pregnant'_ in a way Quinn kind of admires because only her mother can do that, "you're not planning on _being _with him any time soon, right?"

Cue Quinn nearly choking on her orange juice.

"I..." Quinn is equally torn between fighting for her life against her orange juice and trying not to pass out. Judy claps Quinn on the back repeatedly and the blonde winces. "I...what?"

"Are you _with _him, Quinn?" Judy's eyes are narrowed and detached in direct juxtaposition to the soothing way her hand runs, mothering, up and down Quinn's back.

"No." Quinn hates the way her voice comes out so clipped and Judy instantly removes her hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean it to—"

"No, no, it's fine. I understand if you don't want to discuss things with me." Judy turns fully around and goes to head out but Quinn grabs her arm.

"Mom." She pleads, eyes searching, and Quinn can think of a number of times Judy has just walked out on her, when she's done this—or just watched Quinn be forced to walk out—and can't remember a single time her mom has stayed and tried to _work _on this. So it's kind of surprising when Judy sighs and takes Quinn's hand.

"I _worry _about you, Quinn." Judy's voice sounds strangled. "We all make mistakes, but I fear that you and this Noah boy..." She trails off and Quinn's stomach tangles.

"Puck—_Noah,"_ She corrects herself, "Is a good guy, mom." She feels indescribably protective and Judy's shoulders visibly tense. She tries not to add _now_ to the end of the sentence. "He's a good _friend_." He's more than a friend, really. He's not a husband or a boyfriend but he isn't just a _friend_ because he's also the father of her _baby_.

"So...you're not..." Her mother looks like she's walking on egg-shells, like she wants to protect her little girl but never learned how, and Quinn frowns.

"No." Quinn repeats and shuffles on her feet, this time a little calmer. "I don't think I'll really be ready to have anybody like that in my life for a while, really." It comes out quiet—like a silent admission in a storm because she feels as if she's barely said _anything_ but there's so much raging within her and around her—and it's weird, this sharing thing.

She's never told her mother anything about her in her entire life.

Judy's eyes widen and she looks at Quinn, for a split second, like her daughter's something precious. "I think that's a wise decision."

There's more, Quinn understands, happening underneath their words than just their _words _and Judy's hands squeeze the ones in her embrace. Piercing, old eyes look Quinn up and down before Judy must decide to go all or nothing and pulls her daughter fully into her arms in a tight hug that has emotion in it for the first time Quinn can remember.

Quinn's arms are slack as her mother holds her in their silent kitchen.

"I never told you I was proud of you, did I?" Judy's voice is soft, loving, and _broken _in Quinn's ear and her fingers clench unconsciously against her daughter's back. The young girl gulps, blinking away the wetness in her eyes, and tries to push away the never-ending clump of emotions welling within her.

"No." She whispers, "You didn't."

Timidly—like a girl trying to catch a waterfall in her fingers—Quinn's hands slowly come to rest on her mother's shoulder blades.

It's not much.

But it's more than a start.

–

They find a shoddy apartment in a little bit of a racy part of the city just outside of Lima—well, racy for Ohio, anyways, that isn't somewhere in Cleveland—and Quinn tries to stay optimistic when her mom chirpily exclaims that it's "just a start!" with way too much tooth and very little actual _smile_. It doesn't take them all that long to move in because Quinn was literally packed a year ago and Judy doesn't really want to (and can't, due to a very annoying attorney of her late husband's girlfriend) take much with her. Puck gets a free meal out of it and when he's gone, the blondes just sit down on their old couch and stare around their new place.

It's weird because it's quieter, Quinn thinks, than her old house was and that's just a little _sad_ because that house was deathly quiet. At least her childhood home had a grandfather clock that constantly chimed, counting down seconds and minutes to _something._

This apartment is just...silent.

"It's not...bad, I guess." Quinn tries to start a conversation but it's still awkward, especially when she's not really sure what the protocol on this is. "Where do we go, from here?" She asks it curiously because, really, she doesn't know. Russell Fabray left them in debt from the funeral and divorce lawyers that were apparently _ineffective _and they now have an apartment to pay for. Quinn's spent so long on her own, now, that she asks her mother this like it's the younger girl's job.

Out of all the reactions Quinn expects, none of them involved Judy Fabray breaking down.

"Quinn, I don't have a job. I _can't_ get a job...I've never worked a single day in my life because your father told me I didn't have to. I quit my career. I gave—_God_, I'm such an idiot." It is the first time Quinn Fabray has ever seen her mother cry so openly in front of her—it wasn't like the nights when she used to sneak upstairs when she heard clanging and snapping, and see her mother sobbing next to a bottle of brandy while her father straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and walked into the bathroom—it's _open_.

It's suddenly like Judy Fabray is a _human being _and it throws Quinn off, for a moment, because she never realized that she thought her mother _wasn't, _before.

Maybe it's because of the night before, the way her mother so nervously went into the AA and looked so _happy _when Quinn was waiting outside for her; Maybe it's because her mother just looks so scared and sad; Maybe it's because Quinn's _been _here, before. No matter, Quinn feels something like _affection_ and _love _swirl in her stomach and spring up into her eyes and she leans forward, grabbing onto her mother like a life boat, and pillows her head against her chest, her voice resolute and sure, "We'll figure it out, okay? We'll figure it out together."

It's the first time they honestly sit, _themselves_, together on the couch. It's the first time Quinn's ever seen her mother as anything other than the woman who abandoned her child, and it's the first time Quinn's ever felt like anything _but_.

She feels like she has something, maybe. Like maybe it's her job, now, to protect this broken woman against her, even if she's her own mother.

Maybe then she won't have to pretend that it isn't herself she's really fixing.

Judy just digs her head further into her daughter's chest and Quinn holds on tighter.

–

It's two days later that Quinn Fabray has scavenged all along town looking for a job but times are hard, as they say, and she's an hour's drive away, exhausted, when she mindlessly wanders into a building without even looking at the name. She's been inquiring about positions for eight hours straight and she's exhausted so she just pops her purse down, gives the first person inside her most charming smile, and asks if they're hiring.

It's after she asks that she realizes _where _she is.

The man she's inquired gives her this entirely _lecherous _look and she looks around, noticing that she's standing in front of a bar. Worse, from the abundance of neon lights all in the shapes of erotic poses that Quinn shamefully thinks sort of resembles that one picture she drew of Rachel Berry, she knows that this is probably a _gentleman's _bar. She gulps.

The other man behind the bar (the older one who isn't looking at her like a piece of meat) doesn't notice this and, since it's four o' clock their usual crowd of happy men is dwindling, he leans forward and rests his forearms on the cheap wood.

"How old?" His voice is rough and cracking and it makes a large part of her anxious because she should really just...walk away, now.

"Sixteen." She replies instantly.

"Eighteen." He says it like that's what she just said and Quinn shakes her head. They're not _bartering_.

"No, six—"

"With those legs, you're eighteen, and you'll make a great waitress." He slams the shot glass he was cleaning a second ago down on the counter and smirks. "We're a fancier version of Mawby's bar." Quinn doesn't miss the reference and lets out a relieved sigh when she discovers that it's at least an avante garde burlesque bar.

Maybe it's a Jennifer Beals meets Gypsy Rose Lee thing.

She can't believe she's considering this. She should really just...turn around and walk away. She's a dancer, sure, but not a..._dancer_.

"How much?" Is what she asks instead of telling him to go to hell and Quinn's starting to get nervous with her lack of control, considering where this conversation is going. When this man—Sam, by his nametag—leans forward and tells her tips and just how much, hourly, they pay and how much nightly the waitresses are generally tipped, Quinn nearly pulls a Russell Fabray and has a heart attack right then and there.

She thinks of the twenty-two thousand dollars they owe to an incompetent attorney who claimed he was the best in the business during a time when Judy thought she had money—she thinks of the nine thousand dollar funeral they had for a man that hated the both of them—she thinks of the six-hundred and fifty-two dollars they have to pay, monthly, for rent—she thinks of the mortage Judy took out in _her _name for a house some other skank is living in—and Quinn bites her lip.

She's always been one to stick by her mistakes and decisions when she makes them, riding them out until the end, so Quinn Fabray does not take this one lightly.

But she does take it.

"When can I start?"

–

She tells her mom she's working at an upper-class restaurant that is paying her under the table because they're letting her serve drinks. Her mom looks at her like she knows, for a moment, and Quinn knows that Judy doesn't _trust _her, yet.

Judy might never trust her, again.

Then again, Quinn thinks, Judy never really trusted her in the first place; but Quinn never trusted Judy, either.

But when her mother nods, the younger girl knows that it's an olive-branch. It's like this little peace offering whispering that she believes her, even though it's probably not the truth. Or maybe Judy Fabray just doesn't want to even _know_ her daughter is working at a gentleman's club—not knowing and being in denial is easier than dealing with something, right?

Sadly, that last reason is a bit more plausible than the first.

Judy twists the poker chip in her hands with an elegance only a Fabray can muster. Pride is everything. "You really don't have to, Lucille—" Quinn hates her given name—especially her _full _given name—and it helps strengthen her resolve.

"I told you I'd help." Quinn cuts her off. She tries to soften. "I _want _to help." An older hand reaches across the kitchen table and pats a tense hand. The poker chip is cold against her skin.

"I've picked up two jobs. We'll be able to start saving up—putting money towards your college and towards other...unfortunate investments." Judy sounds as exhausted as she does proud and this finally makes Quinn look up, catching her mother's eyes. The tension in her shoulders eases as she realizes something very important.

Her mother isn't the woman Quinn's come to know up until a baby and a funeral—their relationship is changing, evolving—and where she expects older eyes to be hard and judging, they're soft and welcoming. Her mother is trying...shouldn't Quinn do the same? She honestly attempts to lower her guard. It's hard—because it's so hard to _forget _so many things her mother _hasn't _done for her—but maybe they're not the same, anymore.

Thinking of her mother, broken and desperate and just a _woman_, Quinn feels herself do just that. She knows what that feels like; She knows what it feels like to not know what to do—to not know where to go.

For a moment, Quinn Fabray wonders what it must feel like to feel such a homelessness that Judy Fabray must have discovered—a home of solitude and repression and a homelessness of people—but then Quinn realizes that she already knows exactly what both of those feel like.

"That's great, mom." She sounds genuine and Judy smiles.

"I'm proud of you for getting a job, Quinnie." Her hand stays on top of Quinn's, this time, and the cold cutting weight of the poker chip doesn't feel so bad. Neither does her mom's gaze.

Maybe Judy spent so long not telling Quinn she was proud of her, she thinks she has to say it every day, now; maybe she actually means it.

Quinn can't tell.

All she knows is that when Judy smiles at her and asks her how her day was, Lucy Quinn Fabray actually feels horrible about lying to her mother for the first time in her entire life.

"I'm proud of you, too, mom." Another first; she actually almost is. Not entirely—but almost—and that's more than she's ever felt towards Judy Fabray other than nothing at all, for as long as she can remember.

Judy smiles with tears in her eyes.

She's really not sure if it's a step backwards or a step forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **3/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

**A/N**: Figured a short update in recognition of our Faberry win was pretty necessary. So...here you go. :)

* * *

><p>Despite her initial thoughts of working at a bar—she's not even trying to <em>think <em>about the burlesque part, yet—Quinn finds herself not really minding it. It's hard work, but it's no Sue Sylvester and the girl training her is surprised that a 'skinny little thang' could lift so much.

Cindy (Quinn doesn't know her last name and doesn't really care to) is a nice girl in her late 20's trying to make it through college with a kid and enough debt, already, to make her eyeballs green. She's good with people and a surprisingly fantastic teacher to Quinn who, before she knows it, is catching on to how things kind of work around here. She's also a redhead and claims that the only reason she has her job is because of her breasts.

(Right after Cindy claimed this, she followed it up by pointing out that Quinn only got this job because of her legs).

It's not a _huge _crowd because she starts work at 4:30 pm on a Tuesday, but it does get pretty busy by the time Quinn leaves. Fortunately, though, the Tuesday crowd is busy but tame and they all meander out in their third wave by midnight (the longest shift, Cindy had assured Quinn, that she'd ever have). Right now, it's pretty quiet and Quinn's pretty exhausted.

"You did pretty nice on your first day, kid." Cindy praises, eyes tired but twinkling and Quinn can't help but smile. "But you've gotta learn how to keep orders straight."

Quinn pushes down the instant need to respond in bitchy kind and doesn't really find it that hard, anymore, smiling bashfully, "It's easy to carry...it's hard to remember. I don't know much about drinks."

It's true—Quinn doesn't know much about alcohol save for the fact that it'll get you pregnant.

Cindy smiles indulgently, "You'll catch on." She purses her lips for a moment before she turns her head towards the bar, looks around for Ricky, and then leaps over it and snatches a little black drink book and tosses it towards Quinn. "Take it home and memorize it."

Cindy has given Quinn some surprisingly useful information all day that the blonde thinks that she should compile into a manifesto for a way of living—if a man reaches around your side, it's probably to touch your ass; if Sam, not Ricky who is a fantastic boss, looks at your knockers for more than five seconds, just go get more orders; if you want a good tip, give a good show; if you want to memorize drinks, memorize your alphabet first; women in strip clubs are either one of three things: drunk lesbians, lesbians, or women who are about to find their boyfriend in here and will soon _be _lesbians—but this little black book is like a sign from heaven to the young teenager.

She thanks the taller, older redhead and gives her an exhausted smile. Ricky, apparently, thinks she's a keeper and the money he gives her for the long night of training is enough to make the blonde nearly pass out (if the whole, _holy shit I'm working in a burlesque bar illegally and being paid nightly under the table _wasn't enough to make her pass out, already).

When she gets home her mother is already asleep and Quinn's eyes are so sunken that she can barely blink without fear of following in Judy's footsteps. Thankfully, her muscles are conditioned, still, to Cheerio-level torture, so the job isn't too strenuous, but she's trying _hard _not to think about what she's gotten herself into.

It's easier to not think about it when she splits one-hundred and twelve dollars and puts half in the false-bottom of her copy of _For Whom the Bell Tolls _and slips it into her bookshelf, and puts the other half in her purse to take to the bank.

Her back aches and her eyes hurt and she's a little worried that her mom might find her little black bartender's book and freak out and instantly know through mother-knowledge or something that she's working in a _burlesque bar_, but over-all, Quinn's alright.

She has nightmares, again, that night.

–

The days start to blur together, a bit, after that.

It's kind of tough, at first.

It apparently wasn't tough to find a job—no, Quinn Fabray was _good_ at that, thanks to her legs—but it istough to hide it.

She knows better than to mention her new job to _anyone _at the school because she already has to deal with enough stripper jokes from her baby gate days. She especially doesn't mention it to Rachel when she sits down next to her and eats lunch, ignoring her inquiries about Friday until she stops asking. She finds herself consistently drawn to Rachel's friendship, her mind easing in her company, her shoulders a bit lighter and her laughter a bit more genuine.

Quinn thinks that Rachel's drawn to her, too, because she goes out of her way to see her and speak to her and even forgoes sitting next to Finn, a couple of times, to sit next to her in Glee, both of them smiling and joking like best friends (a fact that kind of freaks out the entire Glee club).

It's surprisingly easy to be friends with Rachel Berry because, for all of her quirks, the girl is kind of awesome. It's easier than most things in Quinn's life are, and soon she finds herself unable to wait until lunch.

Working at Lesley's (she's still not sure why it's called that) is awkward, at first—the uniform is _tight _and kind of _skanky_ and men tend to like to slap her ass more than they like to be polite—but the tips, as Ricky claimed, are more than enough for Quinn to keep coming back every night. The hours are late and rough but, despite being teased about her age by the other waitresses (Cindy specifically), Quinn has an innate aptitude for juggling people, drinks, and jokes, and her old motto from the Celibacy Club tends to help her more nights than anything else.

Well, okay, the little black bartending book (that she spends her breaks memorizing) is kind of a life saver, too.

It's weird, but Quinn's good at it, so she tries not to question why her only talent is for working at a burlesque strip bar. Half of it is a restaurant, at least, and the other half is the...dancing...section. It's a little racier than _Flashdance—_Quinn had to go in there once to give a man his wallet, saw a lot of a girl she knows stage name is Lacy, and blushed from the top of her head to her toes—but she thinks that it'd still probably make Gypsy Rose Lee proud (she's really set on her initial-impression ideal of Jennifer Beals and Gypsy Rose Lee).

Besides, the racy stuff is only on weekends. They have some pretty cool avante garde stuff the rest of the week.

Quinn's actually kind of snuck in a couple of nights when no one was around to watch the cooler things, eyes roaming and an impressed smile tucking up her lips. It was a lot easier to watch Lacy when she was doing something she was proud of than it was to watch her have no pride, after all. Some of the girl's stuff was actually what the blonde thinks dancing _should _be made of—all social statements and pushing barriers—but in the end of the day, it's still entertaining. At least it's better than sitting by the bar waiting for _anyone _to walk in.

Thinking of it, Quinn wonders if Rachel might even like it just because it might remind the other girl of _Gypsy_, but she still knows better than to mention anything. She sort of relishes her quiet lunches with her friend that, over the next month, are occasionally joined by Puck, and she doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Rumors in McKinnley spread like wildfire, though.

She never really hung out with her friends even when she pretended to have them, so it isn't her schedule. Even with all AP classes and homework, she has no problem because if a Fabray is anything, it's a hard-worker; but dark circles under hazel eyes are (surprisingly) harder to hide than a baby bump is and she's lost a little weight from the late nights and low money and nightmares so, soon, the whole entire school is sneering that, because of the delirium brought on by losing her father, Quinn Fabray is now a Class-A coke head.

There's a prostitution rumor and an illegal children-smuggling rumor, too, but the coke-head theory is commonly accepted.

It's okay, though, because Quinn, honestly? She could give two shits.

It's a weird thing to realize—the fact that Quinn has so far forgone caring about what everyone thinks that people all over the school think that she's a drug addict doesn't bother her—but she realizes it anyways.

She's tired of wanting people to like her—constantly caring what they think—because she doesn't _want _to be Head Cheerleader, anymore, not if she only wanted it to make her father happy. She doesn't _care _about looks and appearances, anymore, because anytime she even starts to, she's reminded that that's something Russell Fabray would do and it just makes her _sick_.

She doesn't care about _people_.

But she does care about a _person_.

The way Rachel Berry looks at her, sometimes, over her daily salad—hesitant and like she's something to _fix—_makes Quinn's hair stand up on end and her lips purse as she tries to consistently ignore curious brown eyes. The odd sensation that Rachel might _believe _the rumors makes something _hard _form in the blonde's stomach and every time she hears someone mutter about her being on cocaine and sees the little singer and knows she can _hear, _she turns around the corner, thinking it's better to still believe that Rachel has faith in her rather than know for a fact that she doesn't.

What Quinn doesn't ask herself is why she ever thought Rachel Berry would have faith in her in the first place and, furthermore, if she doesn't care about what anyone in the entire school is thinking...why does care so _damn_ much about what Rachel does?

–

It's barely three weeks after Russell Fabray apparently made heart attacks a fashion statement that Burt Hummel decides to follow-up and have one of his own. All of Glee looks at Quinn like she knows what to say, when they find out, and she finds herself shuffling down the risers and softly laying her hand on Kurt's shoulder. When the club has ideas to sing religious songs she bristles but doesn't say anything because she knows that this is how people deal with their _own _grief, not how they help other people deal with _theirs_.

It's silent, in the hospital, when Kurt kicks everyone out except for Quinn. Rachel waits in the hall, looking hesitantly between them, and the blonde just shakes her head.

Quinn hates that Kurt wants her there—hates that he thinks she'll _identify _with him—because she doesn't know what it's like, at all, to lose a father you love.

She only knows how to never _have _one and then be expected to miss him your whole life.

"How do you still have faith, Quinn?" Kurt's tears are clouding his eyes and Quinn can't help but reach across and gingerly wipe them from his cheeks, the tenderness apparently surprising the young man. "How do you still believe in _anything _anymore?"

It's an honest question and, for a second, Quinn wants to say that she's not sure she believes in _anything, _anymore, but she knows that would be a lie.

"Faith is all I have left." She admits and Kurt's grip on her hand shakes and falters before it tightens. "You have a father that _loves _you." Tears slowly fill his eyes and Kurt searches hazel and _knows_, for a moment, who she really is. The thought doesn't throw the blonde as off-kilter as it used to. "If you can't believe in God...believe in that."

Kurt falters and Quinn grabs his hands in hers, resting on her shoulder.

Regardless of the tear in her throat, Quinn's always been good at putting on shows, so she leans forward and whispers, "I didn't pray for my father." Kurt, at this, looks at Quinn like she's not really human, but she's used to this, too, so she continues, "But I pray for yours."

The only sound in the room is the quiet beeping of Burt Hummel's heart monitorand Quinn looks over at it decisively before she nods and admits something.

"Songs are prayers, Kurt." Quinn nods towards the silent man that she can only remember smiling proudly towards his son, loving him unconditionally. "Sing him one."

It's cheesy but it's the kind of stuff Quinn used to see in Lifetime movies that moved the audience to sentimentality and made her sister cry openly into a tub of cookie dough. That's what people want, isn't it? So, with that, Quinn walks out and gives Kurt the space and time he deserves to have with his father. When she sees Rachel she tries her hardest to smile like she means it. It's easier with Rachel, though, because sometimes she really does.

–

Work is endless.

Sometimes she slips her fingers through the curtains in the back and watches while Caitlyn (because she's her favorite, by far, because there's something so beautifully tragic in a lost dream) moves—grace and elegance and something so searing maybe it _is _sensuality—and her lips purse and her tongue thins and, God, she _wonders_.

She wonders things a girl in her position shouldn't wonder and huffs, walking back to the bar, fingers drumming across the wood as her other hand plays with the soft edges of her hard cross. There's things no one should want—that kind of freedom is one of them—because if there's anyone who knows what _freedom_ can do to you, it's Quinn Fabray.

–

Burt Hummel recovers. Quinn works at Lesley's and knows a full 67 drinks, now, from memory without having to sport a ticket. Puck is an asshole. And Rachel...Rachel is slowly becoming a bigger part of it all.

It's the small moments that bring her new friendship with Rachel Berry close to Quinn's heart.

When Quinn stumbles in the hallway, Rachel grabs her elbow before she can fall, arm looping within hers and walking her to her next class.

_"After all, Quinn, it would do us no good to lose one of our best dancers due to a reckless hallway incident that could have been avoided if I wasn't negligent."_

It rains outside on a Monday and Rachel rushes over to cover her with her polka-dot umbrella, a shield amidst a cloud of water.

_"I always come prepared and check the morning forecast!" _

(From that day forward, Rachel always texts her the forecast, originally at 6:42 AM. Luckily, after an angry phone call on a Saturday, she pushes it back to 9:42 AM on weekends).

One day, Quinn forgets her (double) lunch but by the time she makes it to the Auditorium, Rachel has two salads sitting on the edge of the stage.

_"I noticed you didn't have your extra bag with you in chemistry, so I figured that, since you are always being gallant and buying me lunch, I would be pre-emptive and buy __**yours**__ since I think this might be one of my few chances to do so."_

After a particularly rough day at work—fingers blistered and eyes glazed—Quinn shuffles into the auditorium and plops down. Rachel gives her a concerned look and jokingly asks if Quinn wants her to sing her a lullaby. When Quinn says nothing, Rachel twines their fingers and pulls out a _Hello, Kitty _band-aid from her backpack, hands gentle and loving as she covers a rough night she knows nothing about.

The lullaby Rachel softly starts humming against the side of Quinn's forehead is the same one Quinn's sister used to sing before she left and when the blonde finally opens her eyes, it's because the bell's rung.

Rachel's arms are holding her up and her smile is reassuring.

_"You should eat your salad before Glee. I re-packaged it in your bag while you were resting. A balanced meal is absolutely crucial to the success of one's day."_

Two months into their friendship, Quinn is talking to Rachel in the hall when some new hockey player (trying to fit in and trying to be cooler than everyone else) walks up with a swagger in his hip and a smirk on his face. Rachel instantly quiets and the normally-confident girl loses her backbone. She just closes her eyes and waits and something snaps in her friend. Shooting in front of Rachel like a tiger, Quinn slaps the cup out of his hand and says a couple of things to the man that might make her grandmother have (another) heart attack.

Rachel just gapes at her and Quinn's a little worried so she pulls her into the bathroom. It takes a minute of the shell-shocked girl just _staring _at her before Rachel leaps across the gap between them and knocks the ex-cheerleader into the sink from the surprising force of the movement.

_"Thank you." _The way she whispers it, shakily, against Quinn's ear, fingernails clenching against her shoulder blades, makes her _feel_. Quinn can feel Rachel lean against her on the sink—can feel her knees knock against her own—can smell a hint of vanilla and lavender and can feel a distinct wetness pool at the nape of her neck. In the next moment Rachel rips away and leaves Quinn stunned against the sink, heart thumping and fingers scraping against hard porcelain.

Two days later, Rachel comes in late to the auditorium (a rare and nerve-wracking occurrence) and sits down next to her friend with a shy smile on her face. When Quinn quirks an eyebrow, Rachel slips a small card across the wood. The front is a picture of an adorable puppy hugging a kitten. On the inside is a simple phrase on the right.

_Thanks to you I feel protected, _

_ Rachel Berry._

There isn't a two-page diorama of how this happened. There isn't an eight-page letter of gratitude accompanied by Rachel's infamous "Thank You" cookies—which are, ironically enough, exactly the same as her "I'm Sorry" cookies. It's just a simple sentence.

Rachel shifts uncomfortably and Quinn clears her suddenly-dry throat.

"Even Finn never tried to stop them." Rachel whispers it, eyes on the fidgeting up-turned palms in her lap.

This moment is reminiscent of many milestones between them—more words in the silence than actual words in the air—and Quinn finds herself reaching around and pulling the small girl into a side-hug.

"Crunchy wrap vegan tofu ranch or this really weird barbeque vegan...wrap...thing?" Quinn asks, motioning towards her lunch bag.

Somewhere between where Rachel startles—looking at her like her like she's an alien—and the brightest smile Quinn's ever seen flashes across familiar lips, Quinn Fabray realizes that she cares for Rachel Berry more than she can remember caring about anything.

"As eloquently as you described the barbeque...concoction, I think I will stick with my crunchy wrap, thank you." Rachel delicately grabs it like Quinn might pull a Lucy (Peanuts-style, not middle school style...though kids used to think Quinn would steal their food then, too) and something amazing and intangible passes between them, fingers touching and eyes meeting. "Thank you." Rachel repeats.

"Your loss." Quinn takes a bite out of the barbeque delight and furrows her brows. "Or maybe not. Can I have a bite of yours?" Rachel giggles and nudges Quinn's shoulder, offering the first bite of her wrap. "And you're welcome."

They eat their lunch in comfortable silence, after that, until Rachel notices that Quinn is kind of devouring her initial wrap. She leans over and snatches it, tasting the barbeque "concoction" and glaring at her blonde counterpart...who has a knowing smirk on her face.

"You snake. You just wanted both!" Rachel's eyes dance when she stands up and moves over to the piano.

"What can I say? I'm insatiable." Quinn rebuts over her shoulder, Rachel masterfully gliding her fingers over the keys. Quinn's mouth is full of tofu barbeque when she shouts, "If you're so sad about it, cry me a river; or maybe just sing me a song, since you're gonna do that, anyways."

"Bite me." Rachel's smile is evident in her voice; Quinn doesn't have to turn around.

"I might, if this wrap isn't enough." Quinn gently skims her finger down the card and tucks it safely away.

When she finally makes it home she tacks it to her mirror and looks at it from her bed—one of the few decorations—and smiles.

It's the little things that make Rachel Berry's friendship important in Quinn Fabray's heart. She doesn't really realize she's there until she's _there_.

The most distressing part, perhaps, is the fact that Quinn doesn't really mind.

In fact...she kind of likes it.

–

"It sounds like a Sell-out." Santana murmurs from under her, the topic of _Rocky Horror _on the board but no one really caring (save for Rachel who, apparently, really, really wants to do this musical thing). Quinn chuckles, eyes skimming the board before moving back down to the text in front of her.

"Jenny Bowman was always a sell-out." She quotes, attention now else-where because she doesn't have any _time _to read anymore, even though she doesn't sleep, and when everyone's arguing in Glee is the best moment for this. It takes a moment, but when Kurt sees that Quinn made a Judy Garland reference, his eyes, she _swears_, actually turn into rainbows. It was a feat she previously thought unattainable, but now knows better.

"You've seen _I Could Go on Singing_?" Kurt shrieks and Rachel blinks from across the room, turning inquisitively to the blonde as the whole room quiets like this is some sort of secret. The only other blonde in the room opens her mouth as Quinn sighs.

"Q's, like, an annoying film whore." Brittany rolls her eyes and leans her head against Santana's shoulder. She files her nails, eyes bored.

"Don't mention France without hearing about that flood wave shit for eight hours." The apparently-unimpressed Head Cheerleader grumbles.

Quinn glares, "French _New Wave_." The correction holds an evident amount of scorn in her voice.

"Whatever. You and your wang-can thai food can leave me alone. You bore me."

"Wong Kar Wai." Quinn growls, fingernails digging into the book on her lap. Seriously, they've had this conversation so many times that she _knows_ Santana's just doing it to bug her, and that's more annoying than the prospect of her actually getting the (most influential director of all time, in her opinion, on China's) name wrong. She isn't as much of a film-buff as she used to be. Lucy was always more of a 'film-whore' than Quinn Fabray. All Quinn's will, however, always be a book nerd. She's not sure what that mental distinction says of her, but she figures interests always have a history of waning and waxing for all people.

"So you saw _Go on Singing_?" Kurt sounds hopeful and idolized and pink lips purse.

"Yeah." She gives him a small bone but _so _doesn't care. "I hated it." She elaborates, but her eyes don't move from her quasi-best-friend. "And I _know _you liked Chungking Express, Santana."

"Whatever." Santana grumbles, still filing her nails.

"You _hated Go on Singing_?" Kurt sounds outraged and very much like he's about to smack a bitch.

"I did, too." Rachel finally pipes up and Quinn's words stop mid-sentence because her head has slowly turned to the smiling brunette, barely seeing the look of _betrayal _on the young gay boy's face before faced with surprisingly genuine eyes. Their lips share a small, secret smile across a sea of confused faces and Quinn ducks her head.

"_A Star is Born _was my favorite." She supplies, hair covering her eyes before tilting, smile soft, and Rachel shrugs a little.

"Not my favorite but...definitely her best." She offers.

For a moment it just feels like they're sitting in lunch, together, an ease between them that the world hasn't really been exposed to, yet, and it's just...

Unlike a large majority of things in Quinn Fabray's life, it's just _nice_.

The whole room is inevitably bored with their exchange and keeps on talking while they catch eyes for maybe twenty seconds before Mr. Schuester comes back from making copies of their new sheet music to a show pretty much none of them want to do from a cult-classic that (okay, Quinn sort of freakishly loves).

It's nice.

Just..._nice_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **4/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

**A/N**: You know, there's nothing wrong with reviews...I'm just sayin'...I've also (depending upon reviews) decided to update this either twice or three times a week...but it depends on what you guys think. (M/W/F seems like a good system).

* * *

><p>There's something undeniably destructive about this. This is the third time Quinn's slipped into the back room, red lights beating down, coloring her cheekbones in a sepia of hues that never grace her skin. It's almost unnatural, this discoloration, but her eyes look brighter in it—they look more alive, less disturbed—and they grow dark in a manner of moments when the lights dim.<p>

Slightly raked, higher, graceful, _she_ enters in a spotlight of white, her skin porcelain and glowing. Her eyes—her breasts—her lips all white underneath the wash from the heavens, the rest of the room black. She's _stalking _upon the floor, her movement almost corporeal, fluid, ghostly. It's like an angel is gliding down the stage, the soft melody of _Fever _sliding behind Quinn's ears like the backdrop of a forest when there's a fire forcing through it.

She's like a cat, the way her back arches and her legs slide.

It's something as gorgeous as it is feral. It's something as beautiful as it is disturbing. It's something as holy as it is damning. Quinn's fingers tighten against her tray and her eyes dilate as she watches, riveted, _thirsty_. Her movements are purposeful—more purposeful than anything Quinn's ever done in her life—and her eyes are closed; she knows this by heart.

It's nothing Quinn's ever seen before and it's nothing she ever will again. This is something that is to be tasted for one night only—one review of emotion that will pass, like everything else, and be lost in the passage of time. It's not a sexual desire that stirs in Quinn's stomach, but it's a desire, nonetheless, and she consoles herself with the fact that this freedom is like a kingdom she hasn't inherited but, like a peasant, she dreams of one day having a feast before coronation.

For now, she devours, she _becomes_, she watches the slow, sensual, liberated dance as her heart clenches and her tongue slides against the chapped flesh of her lips.

Reminiscence laps at Quinn's heels like a lick of that fire in the forest. Images flitter about unprecedented and un-noted. Brittany gliding throughout the music auditorium, arms arched and eyes closed, a passive smile of complacency upon her lips. Gene Kelly atop a golden, floating, feathery staircase of white. Rachel's hips against her skin, lips parted, eyes slit, a hum against the bob of her neck. Lauren's ballet recital, neck arched, perfect poise, hubris greater than her thumping pulse. It backpedals—freezes—and then propels like a car with no breaks down a hill with no end.

Glasses shattering against her wall; the crunching of her nose; her first kiss; her hands sliding down the arch of Rachel's thighs to her knees; music, music, _music_; her feet on that stage, her own back arching, her eyes _alive_; alive. Freedom. Feeling. Emotion. Retribution. _Alive_.

Alive.

Quinn is enraptured, gaze intense, and she feels like a ghost forever bound inside the shell of her heart.

This is beauty, this dance—this is something she might never know but so desperately yearns for.

The lights dim and the spell is broken and Quinn blinks, breath entering her like a slow leak of gas into a sealed room.

When she slips out, once more, before she's caught, she silently wonders whether it was always a forbidden thought to want this—to _desire _this like breath while drowning—and she thinks it might make her even more disturbed.

It's undeniably destructive and...yet...perhaps most things in life are. Perhaps all things Quinn wants are. Maybe destruction is just beauty at its highest forms.

Quinn shakes her head, feeling ridiculous and breath heavy and scolding.

Whatever.

Sam was fired last night so they're a little understaffed and she takes Mikey—a regular's—order with a smile and a wink and slips behind the bar.

The image is seared into her brain—the taste of smoke and smell of sweet liquor—and her bed dips beneath her frame as she lays there, waiting—not sure what she's waiting for—so many breaths pass and she dreams of smoke and water.

She dreams of Rachel watching her dance.

She dreams of freedom.

She smiles the entire night.

–

Quinn sees Rachel every day at school and when she doesn't see her, during the weekends, the brunette calls her and they talk about pointless things that the blonde's never had the opportunity to talk about with a friend. Sometimes the conversations last for hours—one time Quinn made the mistake of jokingly stating that Justin Bieber was a reputable artist, even though she was being _sarcastic—_but sometimes Rachel just calls to ask how her day is going.

Sometimes Quinn calls Rachel, now, just to ask the same—just because she's bored—and it doesn't take long before the petite singer gets her own ringtone. Quinn so doesn't feel stupid that every time she hears _Keep Holdin' On _she can't help but beam and reach for her phone.

Cindy's arm is wrapped around Quinn's shoulder, one Saturday afternoon—around an hour before the crowds _really _start coming in—and the blonde is laughing at a stupid sexist joke the redhead was told last night and is re-enacting with a flair when the familiar ringtone bursts from her phone.

Quinn almost trips off the bar stool she leaps to grab it so fast. Blushing, she ignores Cindy's amused smirk and tries to not sound a little winded when she answers.

"Quinn!" Rachel's ever-chipper voice cheers from the other end, miles away. "They're showing a _Scooby Doo _marathon and I think you should wisely drop whatever unimportant task it is you're currently doing and quickly turn on your nearest television set." Yesterday a rather heated discussion over childhood cartoons had sparked over lunch and both of them had emphatically hailed _Scooby Doo _as one of the greatest (nostalgia does amazing things) productions of all time. Well, okay, one of the most _entertaining_.

While Quinn had initially been impressed with Rachel's wide knowledge of cartoons—she'd kind of shamelessly assumed her friend had been born in a broadway box, or something—she quickly learned better. Rachel was kind of a Saturday morning cartoon fiend which, in some odd way, suddenly makes sense to the blonde now that she _knows _Rachel.

It's kind of funny, thinking about it, because Rachel obviously didn't think Quinn knew anything about cartoons, either. It's kind of odd what you learn about people when you actually, well, _learn _about them.

"Who's that?" Cindy's smirk is evident in her voice and Quinn rolls her eyes before she bites her lip. There's kind of nothing in the world Quinn wants more than to watch _Scooby Doo _with Rachel Berry over the phone (or maybe even in person).

"I'm nowhere near a TV." Quinn sighs, shaking her head. She looks around the bar, a couple of patrons pretty relaxed, not really busy. She actually _is _near a television—several, in fact—but she highly doubts it's a good idea to put on a child's cartoon at a strip joint.

"Oh." Rachel sounds so openly disappointed that Quinn's stomach turns.

"I'm sorry." She really, really is, hoping the brunette can't hear the baseball game through the hazy phone line.

There's a long moment of awkward silence—even Cindy stops bugging Quinn—before Rachel hesitantly offers up, "You could...come over, if you want. Watch it here?"

While the offer seems pretty tame, it's actually kind of a big deal. While Rachel and Quinn have seen each other every day at school and managed to keep _some _form of contact with each other every day, neither of them had gone over to one another's houses since this year started. The offer makes Quinn blink and smile and she can imagine Rachel's nervous look, foot tapping against the ground. And then she remembers that, no, she can't do that, either, because she's working. The smile instantly slips off of her face.

Her sigh is audible.

"I can't." She leans forward on the bar and tries not to pout. She knows that Rachel doesn't _know _and she tries to be careful with her words. "I just have stuff to do tonight." It's probably one of the worst things you can say, Quinn realizes, because it totally sounds more like _I just don't want to _than _I can't._

"Oh, it's...alright. I understand." Rachel's so dejected, even so far away, and Quinn feels the instant need to fix it—to make her friend understand that she isn't just blowing her off.

"Oh, sweetie, I'd loveto." It's a term of endearment that slips from her lips before she even thinks about it. It's not conniving, like the first time she said it to Rachel, but genuine and she tries not to think about it. "I've just seriously got other plans."

"_Sweetie_?" Cindy barks from right next to Quinn's ear, close enough to where she _knows _Rachel can hear and the blonde's cheeks fire up like a kettle.

"It's quite alright, Quinn, I under—Is there someone there with you?" Rachel's smile has returned, evident in her genuinely upbeat tone, until it tints with curiosity. She sounds more surprised that Quinn's willing to talk to her in public than she does that Quinn might have other friends. "Is it someone I know? If it is, I kindly request you tell them that I say—"

"Oh, God, I knew you liked talkers in bed, Fabray." Cindy snorts, leaning close enough to the phone to hear and Quinn gasps and pushes her older—cackling—friend away the same time Rachel's words die out in a babbled incoherent noise of surprise.

"Cindy!" Quinn shrieks—she's completely red, now—and covers the mouthpiece instantaneously. "I'm going to _kill _you!" Some of the patrons turn around, amused, eyes attentive.

"What, for speaking the truth?" Cindy puts her hands on her hips, eyebrow cocking. "That one definitely sounded like a talker. I always knew you liked it dirty." She's teasing and Quinn's about to rip her a new one when Caitlyn, another waitress, snaps up the blonde's phone before she can do anything.

"Hey!" She weakly protests, eyes wide and a little frightened. She only has fifteen for her break and she's too _old _to deal with this shit. What are they? Five?

"You didn't tell me you had a lesbian _sweetheart_, Quinn." Caitlyn's voice is falsely sweet as she lifts the phone to her ear. "Hey, there." Caitlyn dodges away from Quinn's eager grip. While Quinn might be a cheerleader, Caitlyn is an ex-professional ballerina and even Coach Sylvester has nothing on a Russian ballet instructor. Cindy slides up next to Caitlyn and Quinn groans when the redhead easily keeps her from reaching for the phone. Quinn can't hear what Rachel's saying, but all that matters is that they're _talking_, and the blonde feels so stupid and helpless, right now. "So, can I just ask, is Quinn as flexible as her dancing suggests, or—oomph!"

Oh, _God_ (Quinn might or might have not danced, once, when a Beyonce song came on over the radio last week, when there weren't any customers and she was _bored _and...) Oh _God_.

At a certain point mid-sentence, Quinn decides that it's better to still have a little bit of pride over having any sense of dainty femininity and, in a move that might make Mike proud, she elbows Cindy in the left boob, trips Caitlyn, and catches the phone before it can hit the ground, twirling around and leaping over a chair and holding it out protectively as a barrier before she talks.

Quinn's a little breathless, throat dry and cheeks red, but when she looks at the phone she suddenly doesn't really know what to say. "Uh...Rachel?"

Rachel sounds like she's torn between being amused, embarrassed, and mortified and when her voice comes across the line, it cracks at an octave higher than her normal register, "Yes?"

Quinn searches for a moment and then decides on honesty, "I have _no _idea what to say right now."

Rachel's quiet, for a moment, her voice returning to normal as a small, awkward laugh crosses Quinn's ear, "Do I even want to know? Furthermore, do I want to know what you just did to get the phone back?"

Quinn's face is still beat red. "Probably not." She honestly replies.

"So you really _are _otherwise occupied." Rachel's more amused, now, but there's something underlining her voice that sounds too jealous for Quinn to really want to make a note of it.

"Unfortunately, yes." Quinn makes a point of glaring at the two girls who are snickering across the room, and tries to retrieve their earlier conversation, Cindy openly rubbing her boob. "I really am sorry about...well..._that_."

"It's quite alright." A beat. "I think."

"I'm also really sorry about not being able to—"

"Fabray!" Ricky's voice cuts off the conversation and Quinn winces, reflexively putting her hand back over the mouthpiece. "You're off break. Get back to work and stop beating up my girls." He says it with a smile, but Ricky's nothing if not a ball-buster and he likes to get his (illegal) money's worth.

"Where _are _you, Quinn?" All hints of amusement are gone from Rachel's voice, now, and anxiousness is a familiar friend in the blonde's thumping heart.

"I've gotta go." Quinn whispers, eyes flitting to the floor.

"Wait, just one moment." Rachel's brain is quick and Quinn can hear the cogs moving from the other line. She bites her lip and Ricky yells across the bar one more time. This time she knows Rachel can hear. She winces. "Are...are you..."

"I've gotta go." Quinn's more insistent, this time.

"Quinn Fabray, don't you _dare _hang up on—"

Quinn dares.

"Phones off, Fabray." Ricky orders, but he smiles at her when she does it and Quinn suddenly likes him more than she likes the two other waitresses across the room, right now. At least he doesn't steal her phone.

Fortunately, Quinn's not the only one Ricky yells at, and Caitlyn's soon gone filling trays and talking with the patrons that are trying to act like they weren't watching the entire conversation.

She totally just screwed that entire conversation with Rachel up and Cindy's looking at her like a cat that got a canary and Ricky's _annoyed _and three _already _drunk guys just walked into the bar. Great.

Tonight already sucks.

Quinn straightens her shoulders and goes back to work.

Quinn swears vehemently that she's going to kill both Caitlyn and Cindy, but soon business is too much for her to really focus on it and before she knows it, she's at another fifteen and Cindy's outside with her, this look in her eyes.

"That girl..." Cindy searches for a name.

"Rachel." Quinn instantly supplies. "You _suck, _by the way." Quinn growls, glaring at her friend, and Cindy at least has the grace to look sheepish before she shakes her head and pulls out a cigarette, looking Quinn over.

"She doesn't know." Cindy surmises and Quinn sighs; she's sure Cindy means that she doesn't know about Lesley's.

"No. She doesn't know." Quinn pulls her arms tighter around herself. Rachel doesn't know about, well, _anything_, really, and the blonde likes it that way.

"She sounds like a pretty sweet girl." Cindy's fishing for something and Quinn feels like she's searching for something she doesn't know how to give.

"Yeah, she is." The more Quinn learns about one Rachel Berry, the more she decides that, yeah, she is a pretty sweet girl. She's actually a pretty _amazing _girl.

Silence and smoke is all that spins in the alley for a little while until Cindy turns her head back to Quinn, her eyes dark and knowing in a way the younger girl doesn't appreciate.

"She's not your girlfriend, yet, is she?" Cindy asks, leaning against the brick of the alley as she pulls her jacket tighter.

"She's not my girlfriend _period_." Quinn corrects, eyes slitting. It feels like such a weird, unsettling thing to say and it's not the smoke that makes Quinn's throat constrict or eyes glaze, but she coughs, anyways.

Later that night, laying in bed and staring at her phone and Rachel's rather angry text messages, she blames her sore throat on the smoke, anyways.

When Judy comes in to make sure Quinn got home alright after her night shift, her eyebrows furrow. "You haven't been..." She points down at Quinn's clothes hamper, her nose scrunching. Sometimes the young teenager forgets that her mother kind of lived in the 60's and 70's, so she's very well aware of what smoke smells like.

"You can smoke at the bar at the restaurant." Quinn, fortunately, is prepared for this. You _can _smoke in the club. You can also smoke out of it. She imagines Cindy is where this night's usual smell came from...she's just glad the smell is on her work clothes and not her regular ones. She's still not used to wearing normal outfits to school instead of a cheerleading outfit—maternity clothes withstanding—and she'd hate to give fodder to all of those ridiculous crack-head theories.

Judy nods once before leaning over and crossing the room to lightly kiss her daughter's forehead, a routine that finds itself commonplace most nights. Quinn's smile is tight but a little more relaxed.

Her phone rings and she instantly silences it. Judy raises an eyebrow.

"I can leave if you want to—"

"No, it's fine." Quinn quickly assures, words clipped. "I'm ignoring her, anyways."

Older eyes search young eyes aged too quickly before she nods once more and brushes a strand of hair behind an attentive ear, bidding a goodnight with soft words to try to work it out with whoever is calling.

Quinn sighs when her mother shuts the door, looking at Rachel's voicemail. She shuts off her phone and rolls over.

–

"Quinn." It's the first thing Rachel huffs when she walks into the auditorium and, while Quinn had mentally prepared herself for her friend's annoyed reaction all weekend (even Sunday morning's weather advisement was followed with an _I also strongly advise you to pick up your phone, Quinn Fabray, before I am required to take physical action the next time I see you as your lack of response is leaving me in an emotional upheaval._) she isn't prepared for the stinging slap that hits her across her cheek.

Quinn just stares at Rachel, mouth agape, hand on her cheek. Rachel looks absolutely furious and the blonde has to reign in her own reaction before she grinds out, "What the _hell_, Berry?" She tries not to attach an _oww _to it.

"I warned you yesterday morning that my reaction to your lack of communication would lead to a physical response." She points out like this is a valid argument. "How dare you, Quinn! I was worried about your safety _all weekend_. I could not even enjoy my marathon due to consistent and disturbing thoughts of you being murdered or raped or, worse, being stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere."

Quinn wants to ask why that might be _worse _than the first two, but thinks this isn't really the time to point out flaws in reasoning.

She's never seen Rachel Berry angry, before, and it's as unsettling as it is stirring.

"I told you I had plans." Quinn argues, hand still rubbing her cheek, eyes narrowed. "I was with...friends." The last word is pretty much true (though Quinn is starting to re-assess whether or not she likes Caitlyn...what with her grabby-hands).

"Friends who you've apparently _danced_ for." Rachel rolls her eyes. Quinn's actually danced for them _several _times. Tips are important. She tries not to blush. "And who are quite crude over the phone, might I add. The last thing I heard was some older gentleman _yelling_ and I was worried." Rachel's frustration is evident but Quinn realizes that, yeah, okay, this is kind of what she gets for being friends with Rachel Berry. The girl is sort of a drama queen. "And _no one _ignores Rachel Berry." This last part is less concerned with Quinn's well-being and is more self-centered and it makes the blonde laugh.

Rachel's glare doesn't silence her.

"So you slapme..._why_?" Quinn's cheek still smarts, but she's had worse, and now she's crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. "How, exactly, does you putting me in physical danger alleviate your feeling of me being in personal danger?"

Rachel's mouth opens and closes, for a moment, before she mirrors her taller friend's pose. "Because you deserved it." They stand off, for a moment, before dark brown eyes soften. "I worry for you, Quinn." Rachel lashed out at her because she didn't know what else to do. Quinn knows what that feels like.

The statement makes Quinn's jaw tense. "I don't need anyone to worry about me."

Rachel looks at Quinn like she thinks exactly the opposite is true and the blonde wants nothing more than to leave, right now, and never see Rachel Berry again; it'd probably just be _easier _that way. No one ignores Rachel Berry, though.

Rachel's hand is soft as it cups the spot on Quinn's cheek where she just slapped, eyes remorseful. "I'm sorry I slapped you, Quinn." The waitress shifts on her feet, arms still crossed and eyes somewhere over Rachel's shoulder. "I should have just had a reasonable discussion with you about my fears." Quinn doesn't want to have this discussion anymore, and she says so, but Rachel's hand is resilient, on her cheek, and Quinn can't help but lean into it. "I just care for you, is all." Deep eyes are looking over a tired face—taking her in in a way no one's ever dared to—and it makes her squirm.

Her heart thumps and, for a moment, she wants nothing more than Rachel's approval.

Quinn blinks and feels bile rise in her stomach.

She thinks it's freakishly masochistic that she's finding comfort in the hand that just slapped her. It reminds her too much of her father, when this realization strikes her, for her to stay in the room, and Quinn pulls away.

Rubbing her cheek with a shaking hand, a look in her eyes Rachel surely can't recognize, stomach clenching, Quinn violently rubs her hand over her lips. Her hands are restless, and her voice is low—as dangerous as it is broken—eyes flashing and intense, "No one hits me, Berry." She rips a smooth hand from her cheek before she storms out of the room, ignoring her friend's frazzled voice calling after her.

Later that night, Rachel calls and profusely apologizes and, instead of pushing, just asks Quinn to turn on the television and watch a TCM playing of _A Star Is Born _with her.

Quinn doesn't sleep, that night, eyes on her phone with Rachel Berry's picture on the contact list, her hand rubbing her cheek, thoughts of Russel Fabray too ingrained to let them go. Rachel's breath is on the other line, a steady backdrop to Quinn's thoughts, and she _still _hates that she's taking comfort from the same hand that slapped her.

She tries to tell herself that Rachel's just dramatic—that she was kind of a bitch and deserved it—but it makes her feel like a Stockholm Syndrome victim psychotically trying to undervalue themselves. Sometimes she deserves to be yelled at, but she doesn't think she needs _that_, anymore. She doesn't want Rachel to feel the need to physically lash out—she doesn't want Rachel to turn into the monster Quinn seems to be able to bring out in _anyone—_she doesn't want to wake up one morning to see she's turned her (only real) friend into another Puck; into another Russel Fabray.

She hates that Rachel slapping her makes her more worried about Rachel than herself and it's too twisted to be _okay_.

She leans back in the couch and watches Judy Garland pull a lampshade over her head, Rachel giggling on the other line, and doesn't say a word.

Quinn thinks she's prone to wanting approval from the beasts that seek to only tame her.

She doesn't mind, though. It's better than another nightmare.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **5/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

**A/N: **I felt like updating just because I could. Why not? It's Sunday and it's a lazy one, so...have a chapter for the week ahead. :)

* * *

><p>Quinn doesn't sleep a lot, actually, and people notice. It's part of the reason why they say she's a coke-head. Dark circles can only be covered <em>so much <em>with concealer.

Even her mother feels the need to pick up on it.

"Have you been going to your scheduled meetings with Ms. Pillsbury?" Judy asks one morning, a little hesitant but concerned and protective. Quinn's shoulders tense but she nods, regardless. "Have you...been sleeping well?"

Quinn raises a spoonful of her cereal before plopping it back down into the bowl, a frown on her lips. She looks back up at her mother. They're _trying_. Her smile is tense and a little too fake. "Not really."

This silence is so much worse than their old house. It's heavier, too, a concept that Quinn had hoped to alleviate if she ever forged a relationship with her mother.

"Have you talked to Ms. Pillsbury about it?" She asks. Quinn shakes her head. She doesn't talk to Ms. Pillsbury about anything, really. She's not sure how the OCD manic-depressive could help—in fact, any advice the counselor has given her, up to this point, has proven to just make her nightmares worse—and she figures the sooner she can stop going into that stupid office, the better.

Another long silence.

"You can...talk to me, Quinnie." Judy finally tries, eyes sincere even if they are a little scared. "I might be able to help."

Quinn searches her mother's eyes and feels a small, broken smile slip across her lips. Part of her can't help that she hates her mother, in this moment, because she shouldn't be helping _now_.

She should have been helping a little broken girl _then_.

Still, it's a sweet offer.

"I have to go." Quinn doesn't finish her cereal, but she does clean the bowl before she slides out the door.

–

Quinn dreams that night that it's Rachel lifting her hand to slap her, instead of her father, mother sitting there watching with a knowing look in her eye; before she can, though, Quinn lashes out and knocks her to the floor, back hunching as she mirrors Russel Fabray's stance. A popsicle framed picture of them clashes to the ground and Quinn snaps up in the bed, stomach twisting and eyes wet. Her fingers clench the sheets and she rocks back and forth. She feels like a monster for fighting—back? Against? Towards?—and she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know how to fix this.

Without thinking about it, she grabs her phone and pulls up her contact list, waiting until an immediately awake voice meets her ears.

"Quinn? I am surprised you are awake so early. This saves me the trouble of having to text you your daily weather reminder." Rachel's as chipper as ever and Quinn just sits there, tears in her eyes. Her hand moves up from her forehead to tangle in her hair, twisting and pulling. Rachel sounds much more unsure when she's only greeted with silence, "...Quinn?"

Quinn tries to hold back the burning sob in her throat. She hasn't really cried since Sydney Beth; She's never cried in front of Rachel.

She wants to hate Rachel for slapping her, but she knows Rachel doesn't _know_, and she hates herself for feeling so murderous—so destructive—towards the girl minutes ago. Part of her feels like Rachel is a young Quinn trying to fight back against the monster she must see in Quinn. The Russel Fabray.

Monster genes are hereditary, after all, aren't they?

"Quinn." Rachel's voice is impossibly soft and Quinn finally snaps back, noticing that her tears are falling onto the phone with reckless abandon, a croaked noise leaving her lips in recognition. She feels weak and hates it. She feels stupid.

She feels so, so stupid.

"I'm sorry." She finally whispers, voice surprisingly clear, years of having to sound perfect when all you are is broken providing a wonderful background of experience. "I shouldn't have called." She pauses for a moment, breaking in between Rachel's confused protest, "I'll see you at lunch."

She hangs up and stares at the card on her mirror.

That's what Rachel thinks she is.

_Protection_.

She runs into the bathroom and throws up everything in her stomach.

–

Quinn had thought she was out of the realm of playing perfect, but she soon finds that's all life is. With Ms. Pillsbury she pretends to care and _cope_. With her mother she pretends to forgive. With her job she pretends she's capable and awake and not sixteen. With Kurt she pretends she understands. With Puck she pretends she doesn't still hate that part of him that used her. With Rachel she pretends that she never called her and soon the slap slips into the back of her mind like a far-away memory.

Slowly, Quinn starts to understand Rachel Berry more than she understands herself, because she realizes one night that the slap wasn't _about _Rachel hating her—her reaction to the slap was about hating herself.

She thinks that maybe it wasn't just about her father—that _pretending _isn't just about her father—but it's about a lifestyle choice she's not sure how to undo.

She has no idea why she's forced into therapy when she's doing all of the work for Ms. Pillsbury.

The nightmares get worse.

–

As more and more late nights pile on and Quinn finds herself even more exhausted, one day she stumbles into the auditorium and sits down in the seats before she can even make it up to the stage. Rachel's staring at her _hard, _like it's not Quinn's place to _be _down there, but she soon hops off the edge and sits down next to her. The blonde wordlessly hands her a salad and leans back, closing her eyes.

Ten minutes later, Rachel's shaking her shoulder and Quinn bolts up, realizing she fell asleep.

"Okay, Quinn, I have been patient with you, but what is going on?" Rachel is standing in front of her, hands on her hips, and wagging her finger at her in a way that makes Quinn think of mothers scolding their children on TV. She feels like she's been caught red-handed from the way those brown eyes are boring into her, but she's really not sure why she feels so _guilty_. "You have been showing up here for the last while and, while I have come to genuinely appreciate and look forward to your company, I cannot help but feel it is my friendly duty to point out the deep bags beneath your eyes."

Quinn, for a moment, debates telling her friend about her new job but thinks better of it. "I just haven't been sleeping very well lately, that's all." She offers. At least it's the truth. Memories of Russell Fabray are more daunting than smokey bars. Quinn hastily unwraps her own salad and hopes her petite friend will buy it

Of course, she doesn't. "Don't feed me that, Quinn. I deserve more than that." Rachel sounds indignant and Quinn scoffs. Why _would _Rachel deserve more than that? It's the same thing she told Santana and Brittany and Mercedes and even a surprisingly intuitive Emma Pillsbury during last week's (still mandatory) ineffective therapy session. But Quinn's retort dies on her lips because, for some stupid reason, she does feel like Rachel deserves more than that, even though she has _no _idea why. So she gives her more.

Not the whole story, but more.

"I've been having really bad nightmares." Quinn's surprised when _that's _what comes out, because she was really just going to tell Rachel that she got a new job and let that be the end of it. But, no, she told her more than what she even told the counselor.

Quinn _has _been having bad nightmares.

The fact that she's just admitted this to Rachel makes Quinn squirm in her seat and she only squirms more when Rachel's hand feels so soft and gentle against her arm.

Seriously, she wasn't supposed to _tell _anyone that part because admitting it makes her feel like a small child, nervous and frightened. The job was bad, but she could get through it. She caught up on sleep on the weekends and was determined to do well. It was the nightmares that really made her restless and anxious, weight slowly dropping off her as she stared at her still-empty room in a new apartment building miles away from her childhood home.

"Do you...want to talk about them?" Rachel's voice sounds unsure but caring and Quinn just shakes her head, shoving a bite of her salad into her mouth.

"No."

Quinn highly doubts her lunch-mate wants to know that some of the dreams were propagated by her own freakish methods of protection and an unnecessary slap. She also highly doubts that she wants to know that Rachel's slap isn't the only one in her dreams.

Rachel's nothing if not persistent. "I think it will do you some good to talk—"

"I said _no, _Rachel." It's the first time she's snapped at Rachel since they've become friends and she instantly feels the brunette retreat and look at her own salad, eyes hurt.

"I'm sorry I pushed you."

Quinn tries not to care and doesn't say another word the rest of their lunch period, ignoring the way Rachel's annoyingly wounded gaze follows her the entire time.

It catches up to her after Glee, though, because, seriously, Rachel's been looking at Quinn _all day _like that.

"Oh my _god, _Rachel! Would you stop looking at me like I stabbed your puppy?" She explodes as everyone in the room has practically left and Rachel's still sitting there, forlornly staring after her. If possible, she looks even more upset at this. Oh, right, putting the image of brutally murdering an innocent animal in a vegan's head probably isn't the best way to make them stop pouting.

"I'm sorry." Rachel says it and then starts shuffling out of the room like a pimply-teenage boy who just got his first rejection for prom. Quinn growls.

"Seriously, Rachel, _stop_ that!" She can't stand to look at Rachel so dejected. It's annoying. She's used to her being all...chipper and perky.

"Stop what?"

"Stop impersonating Eeyore!" She commands, pointing to the seat next to her. Finn, who's stayed behind at the door to wait for his girlfriend, looks between both of them like he doesn't know what's going on. Quinn figures that's because he _never does_. "And you! Go away!" She points at Finn before looking back at Rachel, one of her hands coming to rest on her hip.

Rachel's depressed look turns a little amused as she watches her boyfriend scramble out of the room. "I think you scared him."

"He _should _be scared." Quinn mumbles before she points down at the chair next to her. "Sit." She commands. "We're going to handle this like adults and, _no, _your pitiful look didn't wear me down—"

"It helped." Rachel's smiling, now, and Quinn has to hold back a frustrated groan.

Rachel, it seems, knows how to play Quinn into the palm of her hand.

Quinn's eyes slit. "You did that all day on _purpose_?"

"Well, not _all _day." Rachel tries, fussing with her hands at having been caught. "I _was _hurt you wouldn't talk to me. Just not hurt after I realized you're _you _and I'm kind of lucky you talk to me at all."

Quinn just glares. "Sometimes your bluntness is infuriating."

Rachel leans back on her heels before she crosses over and finally sits, raising her eyebrows in challenge. "Sometimes your inability to allow anyone into your life for support is baffling and exasperating." She shoots back and Quinn tenses. Rachel reaches out and grabs her hand before she can walk away and pulls her down into the chair next to her. "We're handling this like adults, remember?"

Quinn rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, making quick work of dropping Rachel's hand. She ignores the real flash of hurt that passes through dark orbs and figures she can just get over herself. Rachel's adamant and unflinching, though, and presses harder than any of her other friends have ever dared to try, and she reaches forward and physically untangles Quinn's arms and grabs both of her hands.

"You're very stubborn, you know that?" Quinn can't help that it comes out amused because she kind of is. Rachel's voice is serious when it responds, though, and it makes a shiver go up the blonde's spine and her mouth dry.

"So are you when it comes to the things you care about." Rachel's gaze is intense and Quinn loses herself in it for a moment. "I _care_." It's so sincere and gentle that the blonde can't help but believe her. She's not sure why, but she _believes _her. "I just want you to open up to me." Rachel's persistent fingers tangle with Quinn's and the blonde shakes her head.

"I _do _open up to you Rachel." And it's not a lie. Out of everyone Quinn's ever known, Rachel's the person that she's opened up to the most, even when the other girl didn't ask her to, even when they weren't technically friends.

"Then why won't you open up to me about _this_? I'm worried about you, Quinn."

"Because I'm not _ready _to." Quinn sighs, untangling her hands so that she can stand up, feeling the sudden urge to regain the natural blood flow in her body, her feet nervous and flighty, hoping for _some _type of equilibrium because she has no control_, _anymore. "I don't _want _to. I don't work like you, Rach. I don't talk about things—"

"You _should_, though."

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do." It comes out surprisingly cross and Quinn bites back a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm trying to deal with _a lot _right now. I'm just not ready."

Rachel is looking down at her hands, her voice lacking all confidence when she quietly whispers, "I just want to be there for you." It makes Quinn's chest tighten and she sits back down, her hand moving of its own accord to raise and cup her friend's cheek. She gives her the most sincere look she can.

"You are." Quinn thinks back to Rachel holding her at her father's funeral—to a quiet conversation on a bench after baby gate broke out—and she shakes her head. "You don't know how much that means to me, Rachel, and I don't think I've ever really thanked you for all you've done for me." Rachel's brown eyes swirl with vulnerability and the younger girl does something that surprises both of them.

She leans across the distance and just _hugs _her.

Quinn blinks, her arms moving around the smaller frame to anchor her against her chest, surprise evident on her features.

She's never actually just _hugged _Rachel Berry, before, and the hint of vanilla and lavender that snakes around her senses makes Quinn a little dizzy and she reflexively holds on tighter.

"I'm sorry I pushed you." Rachel says again against her shoulder and Quinn just takes in another deep breath. Quinn idly thinks that if anyone were to push her, she's glad that it's Rachel Berry, because she has a right to.

"It's okay."

And tucked in Rachel's arms in the quiet of the choir room, it is.

That night after a six-hour shift at Lesley's, instead of dreaming of broken Popsicle frames and crinkling eyes and memories that Quinn Fabray prays to never actually unlock swimming in her consciousness, she dreams of her and Rachel sitting on a stage talking about peacocks. There's no slaps—no anger—no unresolved hate or tension or self-loathing. It's just a lunch.

It doesn't really make sense and Quinn forgets what the rest of the dream is about when she wakes up. All she remembers is smiling brown eyes and the smell of vanilla and lavender.

For the first time in months, Quinn feels well-rested.

–

In the morning, when Quinn flips open her phone to see Rachel's perky, "_It's going to be a sunny day, Quinn Fabray! Summer clothes and happy smiles - Rachel Berry" _weather notification, she can't help the large splitting grin on her face. Her mother is a little confused as she dances out into the kitchen, practically bouncing as she stretches and grabs a banana.

"You look like you've slept." Judy remarks, a twinkle in her eye, her tone amused. Quinn just yawns and nods, too content to note that this is the first time she's honestly _smiled _in front of her mother in years. The blondes sit down at the table—one stuffing their face with a banana while the other gazes over the top of a cup of much-needed coffee at the sight of said-stuffing—a content silence falling over them. "You're eating again, too."

Judy, apparently, notices more than Quinn ever gave her credit for. They never mentioned a rather long stretch of emotional eating illness, nor have they mentioned the younger female's lack of eating since her father's untimely meet with Mr. Grim.

Quinn hums, and Judy's smile is wide.

A slick phone vibrates on the table and slim hands shoot down to snap it open before her eyebrows furrow, and older hands gesture.

"It's the same number that called me earlier." Judy notes with an air of confusion, shrugging her shoulder. "If it's important, they'll leave you a message." Ever obedient, Quinn snaps the phone shut and their eyes reconnect. "It suits you." Her mother says simply, picking up their earlier conversation with grace, and hazel eyes snap up, dancing over a half-eaten banana.

The silence isn't really all that stifling in the apartment, anymore.

–

"And this is for..." Quinn trails off, holding up the pile of color swatches Rachel had thrown into her lap upon sitting down next to her in the auditorium.

"A very important decision." Rachel skirts, "Now, quick, pick which color best matches both my complexion _and _my eyes."

Quinn blinks, "I...what?"

"Quinn, this is a decision of utter importance." Rachel huffs, bouncing, "Don't dilly-dally."

"...dilly dally?" Her face is incredulous. "People still _say _that?" She pauses. "People _ever _said that?

"Obviously, since I just said it. Pick."

"Whatever." Quinn holds up the five varying shades of green. "Why am I picking from greens?"

"_Quinn_."

"What?" She huffs. "You wanted my advice? My advice is to go with a dark blue for whatever the heck it is you're doing. A dark blue would compliment your skin complexion and your dark hair color. If you're looking for a dress, wear your hair up in a sweeping bun—low neck-line—floor length; eye-shadow, go with this color," She looks around the auditorium quickly before pointing down at the edge of Rachel's (a little overly flamboyant) dress, glad for the color palette beneath her, "Lipstick, stick natural. You've got a good lip shade. I vote rich, dark colors." She concludes, promoting, "Or, if you _want _a green, go with this," She points down at the third, lighter swatch in her hand.

Rachel just stares at her, mouth hanging slightly open.

"What?"

"I just...I..."

"What?" She presses and Rachel's downright baffled expression turns amused. "_What_?"

"I'm painting my _room_." Rachel finally mutters, eyes dancing and a laugh leaving her lips. "Daddy finally agreed to let me paint it but we've been having _horrible _arguments over the color."

Quinn's cheeks tinge just the slightest. "Oh."

"It's nice to know I have my own personal fashion designer, though." Rachel teases, "Since Kurt seems to delude me every time." Long blonde strands fall in front of hazel eyes as she ducks, "It's also a little flattering that the prettiest girl in school pays that much attention to me." She seems to add as an after-though, apprehension in her voice. Their eyes meet and Quinn smiles. It's so odd how Rachel says these things, sometimes—just comes out and tells Quinn she's pretty like she should _know _this (like it's fact) and it's unnerving.

"You're my friend. Of course I notice." She always has. Long, light fingers slip over green in a blaring contract, gently slipping the swatches back over to her friend. "Also—you have a nice complexion. And..." She almost says something stupid—but then stops herself—and then takes in a large huff of breath and figures—_screw it_. "You're pretty, too."

"Really?" The surprise in Rachel's voice is a little tilting. It's probably the biggest compliment Quinn's given her since they've met.

"The prettiest girl I've ever met." She sincerely whispers, wondering momentarily what the hell is wrong with her, but when Rachel blushes she decides it's okay to say stuff like that to friends. Rachel really _is—_there's never been any doubt in her mind about that. Her eyebrows furrow when a thought strikes her, eyebrows furrowing, "And, wait, you paint your room to match your _eyes_?"

Rachel blinks at the question, staring for a moment before giving her an obvious look.

"Of course, Quinn. I make my myspace videos there."

Quinn just stares for a moment and then feels _totally _weird because, yeah, she just realized she's seen every shade of Rachel's room for years and she's right, they _do _always...bring out her...eyes.

"That one." She quickly picks a shade, Rachel nodding in approval, a white smile flashing, before she takes a bite out of her sandwich.

–

It's kind of cruel, really, how the world works; generally, though, the world works _exactly _how Quinn Fabray expects it to.

That is: she kind of just expects the world to suck.

So when it's a Saturday night, nearly 2 in the morning, Quinn isn't at all surprised when things turn to crap.

She's scratching her neck—a sign in and of itself, because, really, her neck only itches when something bad's about to happen—and prying a drunken patron's hand off of her left ass cheek when she hears a very, _very _familiar voice.

"Let's get this party started, ladies!" It rumbles and it makes Quinn's stomach feel like ice...which is kind of funny since she feels like her face is on fire.

"Decided to stop fightin', eh?" Drunk-guy's hand is _still _on her left cheek and Quinn is instantly torn between running and just staying stock still. The place is packed—it's a Saturday night, after all, their busiest night of the week—and Quinn thinks she might be fired if she just stands here; But, at the same time, if she turns around...

Quinn bites her lip and looks down at the table and the man slurring and smiling up at her like she's an angel. Well, perhaps a fornicating one. She keeps her voice low but clear. "Did you want the special, or are you just going to slap my ass all night?" She can't help if she sounds pissed (she is) because she's three seconds between getting caught in a strip club _working _there, and punching this dumbass in the face. She tries not to growl when his hand once more slaps her ass.

"That's it." She doesn't care who's behind her anymore—doesn't even care who's employing her—they can't fire her because she doesn't even legally _work _here. "If you touch me one more time, I'm going to not only snap off your finger, but I'm also going to shove it _so _far up your ass your eyes will—"

"Woah, wait!" That same voice booms from behind her and she winces. She tries to shuffle away. "No way, no _way_." He reaches for her but she's too quick. Silently thanking Coach Sylvester for being so much more of a bad-ass than that fat football coach, Quinn keeps her back to him and sprints out the door and into the back, throwing her apron at Ricky and saying she needs five minutes (unless he wants her to charge that asshole out there with a sexual harassment charge) before slipping into the back alley.

That...was _close_. She takes a deep breath and clutches at her chest, leaning against the wet brick and trying to ease her raging heart. What was he even doing there? Quinn thinks it makes sense for Puck to be in a strip bar...but why not the one down the street? That was much more his style. Besides, it wasn't even legal for him to be let in.

Quinn bites her lip and tries not to remember the fact that it's not exactly legal to _work there_, either.

Maybe if she waits it out, he'll go away. Maybe she can sneak back in and out without him noticing. Ricky might be pissed that she took a long break...oh, hell, she'd be _fired_, but she could ditch and make it back home without him ever noticing. She could get one of those reputable jobs she saw on television—like..._Burger King_, or something—and could pretend she never worked here.

Well, okay, she'd have to pick up _two _jobs. Maybe they wouldn't be mad at her if she worked at Burger King and McDonald's at the same...

"I'd know that ass _anywhere_, baby mama." His voice is a myriad of emotions and, really, she can't blame him.

Quinn freezes against the wall, her breath catching and a groan leaving her lips.

It's not even like it's _fair_. Quinn's ass _so _isn't her most defining trait.

She's never really understood why people smoke...but she's sort of starting to get it. Right now she wants nothing more than to take in a long curl of smoke and hide in it.

"Maybe you should keep your eyes on people's faces, you perv." She growls—doesn't even bother looking at him—she just turns around and moves to head inside. Puck's faster than she gives him credit for and grabs her bicep, twisting her around. She still doesn't look into his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" It's so confused and close to _hurt _that Quinn has to bite her tongue from lashing out at him.

"Let me go, Puck." She struggles against him, for a moment, but he just presses her harder against the brick. It kind of hurts, but she's not about to let him know that.

"What the _hell _are you doing here?" He repeats and she looks up, defiant. Enough of her life was men pushing her around—she doesn't need it from Puck, too—she doesn't need it from _anyone_.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" She challenges, eyes hard and somewhere over his shoulder. His jaw visibly clenches and it takes all of Quinn's strength not to recoil when he moves his hand. She expects a hard smack against the face, maybe, it's what she's expected her whole life, but Puck isn't that close to her—hasn't seen enough of her demons to want to exorcise them—so his hand is surprisingly gentle when it tucks her chin and forces her to look into his eyes.

"Look at me, Quinn." His voice is rough, hard, but there's something _knowing _underneath it. Quinn tries to close her eyes.

"Just leave me alone, Puck. Go home." She tries, something close to desperation in the sound. She just wants to go back inside and work. She just wants to forget this has ever happened. She wants to forget that stupid, weak moment against the wall where she thought she could afford to do something else.

"Look at me."

She does. She doesn't like what she sees there. It's something like disappointment. She pushes him off of her the next moment, eyes angry and words biting.

"Like you have any right to judge me, _Noah._" She shakes her head. The rain's cold—so cold it doesn't even feel _wet _anymore—and it stings her eyes when she throws up her hands. "You're the one going in there in the first place!"

"I'm not _judging _you, Q. I want to know what the hell you're doing working in a sleeze joint." He growls, eyes on fire. She sets her jaw.

"Whatever, Puck, I'm not yours to protect." She wants that to be her dramatic moment—she wants it to be a dramatic storm out that Rachel Berry would be proud of—because she's cold and she's tired and she's _wet _and she has to work for another hour before she can go home, sleep, and do this all again. Her pay's already been docked this week because she totally laid into this guy that was all over Cindy and she can't get fired. She can't really work anywhere else.

She can't really work at McDonald's. She can't really work at Burger King.

And, really? She doesn't freaking _want _to.

"Does Rachel know?"

Quinn really wants to know why that's the first thing everyone asks once they get past the idea that she works at Lesley's.

The question freezes Quinn in her tracks and she whips around, eyes narrowing. "What does she have to do with any of this?"

"I just don't think she's the kind of friend that would let you stay here." His voice sounds kind of threatening—taunting—like she used to sound before she told on Lauren...or before she made some poor freshman Cheerio's life hell back when she thought she was on top.

Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, trying to wrap her head around this, "You wouldn't." It doesn't come out accusatory, or angry, more just defeated. "That's not your style, Puck." Her words are barely lost in the rain and, suddenly, she wonders where all of her strength went. She feels it drain out of her like the storm in the sewer gutter down the street.

"No, Quinn, that's not why I..." He shakes his head, letting out a frustrated sound before he runs his hand over his face and walks closer. He's cautious, like Quinn might run away, as he lovingly eases the blonde back under the awning, positioning himself so the rain might hit him. "Shit, Q. You know I'm not good at stuff like this."

She crosses her arms and looks off to the side, feeling vulnerable and cold. The uniform is revealing and, while Puck's the only one who's ever _seen _her naked, she doesn't like feeling like she's naked, now.

"Go home, Puck." She whispers, and he leans down, straining to hear her over the rain.

"Why are you working here?" Puck's the kind of guy that hits things—the kind of guy that physically fixes all of his problems and screams when he can't—he's the kind of guy that breaks what he can't fix. He's the kind of guy that Quinn knows wants to scream, right now—wants to fix her—but doesn't want to _break _her, either. "You don't have to _fight _me all the time, y'know?"

She sighs. She doesn't...but she doesn't know how to do anything else, either. She doesn't know how to stop hating him; she doesn't know how to stop hating _anyone _anymore. "I'm not a dancer." She tries to appease him and his shoulders ease just the slightest. "I just...I'm a waitress."

He takes that in, eyes scanning over her face. "Why?" The question has too many connotations and too many answers, so she goes with the simplest.

"It's better than down the street, isn't it?" She tries not to be ashamed—she really does—but she can feel it bubbling in her stomach. The bar really isn't bad and the patrons, well, there's assholes _everywhere, _but there's something about the idea of having to work in the first place that makes her feel so horrible. There's something about the idea that if she hadn't walked into _this _club, and she walked into the club down the street, she would have taken it. She might have thought about it, but she would have taken it.

It's not such a horrible revelation to know that she actually kind of _likes _it at Lesley's. It's not sleazy—despite Puck's proclamations—and it really _is _a fancier version of Mawby's. The girls here are all aspiring to something—working towards something—revelingin something. They all have something to say or something to give and Quinn feels kind of humbled, sometimes, to work there. Even Ricky's grown on her, as obnoxiously dry and _not-funny _he is. When Quinn walks in to work at Lesley's no one looks at her like she's that pregnant teen; no one looks at her like she's on cocaine; no one looks at her and thinks anything of her save for the fact that she's good at what she does.

And, okay, they all might think she has good legs, too (and a great ass, apparently, if Puck has anything to say about it) but Lesley's isn't actually a strip club. Quinn isn't a stripper.

Had the day been any different, months ago, she _might _have been, and _that's _what makes her ashamed.

She doesn't tell Puck this—she doesn't have to—he just looks at her and the next thing she knows, he's enveloping her in his arms. It's wet and it's cold and when she pulls back, she can see his flesh through his white shirt, but she feels a little warmer, too.

"It's not bad?" He asks, eyes concerned and curious. "It's not _that _bad, right, Quinn? I'm not gonna leave here and find out that things are _that _bad." She knows what he means. He wants security—he wants to be assured that he's doing the right thing, in this next moment, in letting her go back inside—he wants to know that his friend, his child's mother, maybe even the girl he thought he could love, once, will be okay.

He wants her, for the first time, to not lie to him.

She takes a moment—takes a breath—and shakes her head. She doesn't lie to him. She's honest.

"It's bad." She whispers, thinking of the bills stacking up in her wake, but she knows what _he _means, "Maybe it _would _have been that bad but...I...I don't know." She allows a small, timid, shaking smile. "I like it here." She thinks of her mom and her childhood and the years she spent hiding. "I like helping. I like _doing _something." She likes not spending the empty hours thinking of her daughter or thinking of what she's going to do with her lack-luster future. She likes the women she works with and can tolerate the men she tends on. She likes the way her mother's smile eases when she guiltily takes the money Quinn offers. She likes not feeling like a mistake.

She likes feeling like she's _worth _something.

She's not surprised that it's Puck that she tells this to—not surprised it's him that's found her first or that they're even having this conversation outside of the club—and she finally lets herself relax in his arms.

"You could have _told _me, Q." Puck whispers against her cheek as he leans in, further, pulling her tightly against him and she takes in a breath of his cologne. "You're my girl, Quinn. You're my family" His arms slip down to the small of her back and she closes her eyes. "I _want _to protect you." She thinks back on her earlier words and shakes her head.

"I'm sorry." The words are lost in his shoulder and the rain. She remembers she's trying for him—trying to be his friend. He nods.

"It's cool..." He freezes for a moment. He's as good at this as she is, so she pulls away, wiping what she swears is _just _the rain out of her eyes.

"Thanks, Puck."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs and she knows that he's _soaked_, so she beckons him back in. "Free show?" She hits his shoulder. Ricky's gonna be _so _pissed that she's this soaked. Luckily, she's got an extra uniform for a reason. She has one of his sweatshirts in her car and an umbrella—Rachel told her this morning, after all, that the weather report claimed it was a sunny day, but her sixth sense _knew _better so Quinn brought an umbrella just in case—but her keys are in her locker.

"Yeah, _no_." She pulls him along, "Once you have my keys and give them _back _you're getting lost, Puck. It's illegal for you to be in here."

"Pot calling kettle sleazy, hot momma." His words are muffled by her hand.

"Shut it." She continues pulling him, smiling sheepishly at Cindy (who is a little shameless and catcalls the whole way) and waving off Ricky (who is not as happy as Cindy but is just as shameless).

"What did I tell you about boyfriends, Fabray?" He hollers after her—despite the fact that there's a smile on his face as he cleans out glasses.

"_Shut it_." She repeats when Puck turns to her with a lecherous grin. When they're at her locker, she tosses him her keys and nods towards the door. "My car's parked in the lot. Some of your clothes are in the back. Go change."

"I thought that car looked familiar." He scratches his chin and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm a little annoyed that the only thing you actually recognized about me is my backside."

"What can I say, it's a nice view—oww." She hits him in the shoulder and shoves him out the door and changes into her extra uniform, sighing at the dry fabric on her wet skin. It's no small relief.

When he comes back five minutes later, she once more kicks him out, but this time with a tight hug and a desperate smile.

"Don't tell Rachel."

She's not really sure why she cares so much—and she's not really sure why Puck looks like he _does _know—but all she cares to think about is that she's relieved that Puck understands and nods.

"Promise me."

"Sure. Chill." He hesitates for a moment before he leans forward and tenderly kisses her on the side of her forehead. Their hands catch as he walks away and their eyes meet.

Quinn offers him a shy, thankful smile, and Puck looks like he's won the lottery.

When he's gone, she takes a moment to breathe and compose herself before walking out and noticing that—son of a—despite her twenty minute break, is still sitting there, waiting for her. Yeah, sometimes life really likes to screw with her. She's kind of glad that Puck's gone because it might be a little hard to convince him that this place isn't such a dive when a guy keeps trying to grab her ass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **6/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes people were made to be alongside. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. Life...is fickle. Faberry. Set the start of Season Two; AU onwards. Spoilers for everything.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

**A/N: **_I _needed something happy after tonight's episode. FML. Also: does _no one _remember Rachel's ferrets?

* * *

><p>Two days later, Puck slinks into the auditorium and plops down next to Quinn, who offers him a sly smile.<p>

"Hey there, Gypsy." Quinn furrows her eyebrows for a moment before she blushes and nearly pushes Puck off the edge of the stage. _Not telling Rachel_, she's pretty sure, involves not making references to a very famous burlesque dancer.

"Gypsy?" Rachel blinks and looks between them, a bite of salad halfway up to her mouth. "Gypsy Rose Lee?" She looks freakishly _excited _about the idea of a connection between her favorite musical and her friend. Of course, that's probably because she doesn't know the connection.

"Yeah." Puck smirks, winking at Quinn in a totally obvious way that makes her shove her head into her hands and groan. "Quinn _really _loves Stevie Nicks. In fact, I bet she could even dance the Gypsy."

Rachel looks even more confused when Quinn continuously mumbles _I hate you I hate you I hate you _under her breath.

"There's a dance?" Rachel's head is tilting like a puppy dog and Quinn can't help the blush that rises on her cheeks. When Puck opens his mouth, again, the hazel eyes go wide and she reacts without thinking. She knows he's going to say something _stupid _about a pole—or a stripper—or, y'know, Quinn being on a pole and being a stripper, so she...takes a leap of faith.

One second, her arms are around Puck's chest and the next all she feels is air all around her as Rachel yelps and both Quinn and the obnoxious father of her child tumble off of the edge of the stage. The tall man lets out a rough _oomph _as she lands on top of him.

She groans and leans forward to his ear, gasping, "Shut. Up. Puck."

It takes him a moment to regain his breath, wheezing, "Hot damn, Gyp." This is a nickname that apparently is never going to go away. Quinn is quietly devising an FML post in her head. "You could totally take Franken-Finn's spot as a quarterback. Jesus."

"You don't believe in Jesus." She whimpers, rolling onto her back and closing her eyes. She really does not want to look at Rachel's face, right now. Normally Quinn trusts her instincts, but sometimes Rachel makes her do stupid...stupid things. This? Not her brightest move. "You're Jewish."

"Dude, if your mad Christian man-power is the reason why so many totally awesome Jews converted, we're not bros anymore." He laughs, a little, and Quinn just throws a hand over her face.

She wants to argue that they're not _bros_, anyways, but then she remembers that, oh yeah, they kind of are.

"I hate you." She repeats. Puck just laughs.

When Quinn finally does open her eyes, Rachel's mouth is hanging down to the stage floor, eyes wide and she looks so baffled that she's speechless.

Oh well, at least Quinn's neck doesn't itch.

–

That night, an hour passed Rachel's self-allotted bed-time, Rachel slips it in like a ninja before she hangs up the phone, "Oh, by the way, Quinn, I am not going to just let it slide that you tackled Noah—rather dangerously, I might add—off of a stage before he could tell me exactly what this '_Gypsy_' dance was. Though we both know Noah's character is slightly deplorable, I highly doubt that he was speaking truth in relation to what this reference _actually _was and there is something—quite unsurprisingly—that you aren't telling me."

Quinn blinks.

"You didn't breathe once that entire...sentence? Was that a sentence or was that a paragraph? It's common practice to use pauses for periods, so I can never tell what you are saying—"

"Now is not a wise time for you to make fun of my effective and systematic approach to analyzing and attacking a problem." Quinn can hear Rachel's glare through the phone.

There's a momentary pause.

"Me dancing to Stevie Nicks is a problem? I thought you said I was a good dancer." She tries.

"Fine, Quinn Fabray, we're going to do this the hard way."

When Rachel hangs up the phone, Quinn is suddenly unnerved and she doesn't think she'll be able to sleep, her thumbs twiddling on her stomach as she wonders what, exactly, Rachel thinks is _hard_.

Twenty minutes later, eyes still on the ceiling, Puck calls Quinn annoyed.

"Dude! Call her off. She said she's gonna show up at my house and I'm trying to get some mad gaming in. Tomorrow's pool-cleaning day and I have to bang hot chicks. I don't have time for this shit, Q." Is his greeting. Quinn rolls her eyes.

"It's your fault for even mentioning it at lunch, you idiot." She chastises. So not her problem.

He starts to argue when a doorbell in the background freezes them both.

"She's at my house! How does she even know where I live?" He sounds freakishly scared.

"You dated her, didn't you?"

"I made out with her."

Of course. In Puck, Quinn knows that means that he just made out with her on Rachel's bed.

Quinn feels a little bit of fear grip at her stomach. "Make her go away."

"I _will not_, Quinn Fabray." Rachel's grabbed the phone and Quinn actually yelps, clenching her heart.

"How did you get in Puck's house?"

"I go to temple with his mother. She's a lovely woman. She likes me."

Quinn bites her tongue to keep from pointing out that Noah's mother probably only likes Rachel just because she's Jewish.

"Why are you even _at _Puck's house?" Quinn's genuinely curious.

"Your house was empty." Rachel's voice sounds as warning as it does almost...lost...and the pang of fear and cold, blind panic that seizes Quinn's throat is evident through her hitch in breath. "So I thought you might be here."

There's a long moment of silence and Quinn can imagine Puck awkwardly sitting, trying to pay attention to his game, but obviously failing. She can imagine Rachel's endless brown eyes that don't know when to quit.

"I'm not." Quinn finally says, trying to sound nonchalant but sounding strangled and slightly idiotic, instead.

"That much is obvious." Rachel dead-pans and the blonde closes her eyes. "Where _are _you, Quinn?"

"What do you care?" Her fingers grip tightly against the phone. She's not sure why Rachel's trying so hard to chase her around the world when they're barely friends. So they have lunch every day and call each other and sit together and stuff—it doesn't mean Rachel should know where she is every second of every day.

"I'm your friend!" Rachel's exasperation is clear. "And, quite frankly, Quinn Fabray, I'm tired of you keeping things from me."

"I'm tired of _you_ butting in your head where it isn't wanted."

The silence in Quinn's apartment is suddenly stifling, once more, and the young waitress has the strongest urge to take it all back.

"Fine." Rachel sounds as stubborn as ever, but the underlining hurt is hard to ignore, and Quinn's fingers tap at her neck. "I suppose I'll just go where I'm wanted, then."

"Rach." She growls, knowing that her friend is about to slam down Puck's phone and storm out of the house. Unfortunately, they're both head-strong.

"I'll see you at lunch, tomorrow."

Fortunately for Quinn, Rachel's not a quitter and knows more about what Quinn wants than she does.

Quinn doesn't realize until an hour later, biting into an apple as she writes an essay, that Rachel just effectively pulled a Dolly Levi.

_You go your way and I'll go mine_.

Quinn blinks.

Well, son of a bitch. She huffs and rolls into her bed, abandoning her essay to stare at her ceiling. She tries not to smile too much.

–

The salad, as always, is a peace offering, and Rachel takes it with a confident stare, eyes slightly slit.

"I admit that I must learn how to stop pushing you, Quinn. I am not stupid, either" Rachel branches, "And I am well aware that Puck's statement is only part of it all." Suddenly, Rachel's talking about more than just yesterday, "But one of these days you'll figure it out."

Quinn doesn't like the smug look on Rachel's stupid _all-knowing _face but she doesn't like the silence, either.

"Whatever, Rachel." She huffs. "Just eat your salad."

Luckily enough for both of them, the brunette listens.

Ten minutes later, Rachel glares down at Quinn's obnoxiously—and consistently—ringing phone. "Aren't you going to answer that?" Her response is a tired shake of the head and a rough sigh. It's the same number that's been calling her ever since that breakfast with her mother. She doesn't recognize it and they still haven't left a message; last week she tried answering but all that came across the other line of the phone was creepy breathing and no answers. Maybe she has a stalker. She hesitates before she flips it open.

"Hello?" She mostly wants to just tell them to go to hell and stop calling but good Christian upbringing and curious eyes across too much space are stopping her.

There's obviously someone else on the line. She rubs a hand over her forehead.

"Look, this is kind of getting creepy. Answer or just _stop calling_." She hears a voice crack on the other end and she blinks—a female. The phone goes dead and Quinn sighs.

"Who was it?" Rachel's curiosity is as insatiable as her need for applause and her friend just purses her lips in response.

"I have no idea."

They share a glance before they go back to a resumed and unusually uncomfortable silence.

When they leave the auditorium, terse looks on both of their faces, the hockey team walks passed them with slushies in their hands and looks at the pair like they're Christmas incarnate. Rachel fusses with her star-sticker covered notebook, pulling it tight against her chest like it might save her and Quinn's eyebrows furrow in concentration. Without even thinking about it—annoyed and frustrated, still, and still tense and oddly protective—Quinn shoots in front of Rachel and crosses her arms.

Little freshman hockey boy thinks he might get away with it, this time, because he's got friends, but Rachel Berry has friends, too, and Quinn thinks it's about time that they get this into their thick skulls.

"If I see a single one of you even raise your hands, I swear to _God_, I will not only make it so that not a single one of you can show your faces at this school, again, but I will make it so that your _parents _can't even look at your ugly faces. I will destroy you and make your life a living hell. I will hunt down you—your friends—and your friends friends. I'll let your uncle know what's under your bed; let your sister know what you did last weekend; I'll tell your parents what _really _happens in the locker rooms. Still raising your hands?" Quinn's voice is _violent_ and she can feel Rachel stiffen behind her. The hockey players are all staring at her, shocked, eyes wide and hands shaking.

It's good to know she's still got it, sometimes.

So it's a little dramatic and over the top. What can she say? She's _pissed_ and this is the _second _time that stupid hockey kid has tried to pull a slushie on Rachel and she's tired of everyone in this school trying to impress everyone else. She's tired of people trying to _impress _people.

She's tired of seeing herself everywhere she looks.

Their hands are still half-way up, though their eyes are unsure, and Quinn thinks quick—swings her bag around her hip and gives her best head-bitch glare.

"Or I can just reach into my purse and pull out my cocaine needle and make _all _of you over-dose." She tries not to laugh as they all sprint down the hallway, the fear of God in their eyes. She doesn't, however, try to hold back her smug look.

She leans her head to the side as she hears Rachel's giggle, eyes catching, "Really, Quinn?" Endless amber eyes dance. "A _cocaine _needle?"

Quinn shrugs, a smirk on her face, pointing down at the carnage of an un-fought war, "Hey, it worked." Rachel's no longer fussing with her binder, her shoulders relaxed and smile soft and thankful, fingers working around something that's come off the binder. Before she can ask what it is, Rachel in a quick motion—like if she thought too much about it, she'd decide against it—presses the smallest of bright, golden stars against Quinn's cheek, leaning on her toes to do so, their eyes level.

"These deplorable methods gain the Rachel Berry star-stamp of approval." Rachel giggles, eyes bright and beautiful and Quinn isn't aware of how genuine—how wide—how dazzling her smile is in the middle of McKinnley High's school hallway. They're close and when Rachel finally slips back to her original height, their breaths still mingle and their eyes don't waver.

"Deplorable? I like this outfit." Quinn defends, gesturing, her smile still in place though her eyes squint.

"So valiant." Rachel teases and then what just happened really sinks in and Quinn laughs and soon they're both laughing, huddled together surrounded by abandoned slushies, the students left in the hallway gaping at them.

"People actually think you carry a needle at _school_?" Rachel asks in-between laughs, arm wrapped around Quinn's waist, all hints of tension between them gone.

"Apparently so." She drawls in response, head leaning onto her friend's shoulder.

Their laughter finally dies down after the bell's rung and, surprisingly, Rachel doesn't run to her next class in a mad panic, she simply twines her arm with her friend's, beaming.

"You're a good friend, Quinn Fabray." Rachel whispers into Quinn's shoulder and the taller blonde blinks, looking down. "Twice you've faced down a mountain of slushies for me." She sounds slightly idolized and Quinn rolls her eyes but can't help but smile.

She thinks of Rachel running all around the world looking for her, the night before, and honestly thinks that _she's _the lucky one. She thinks of protecting Rachel and the card tacked on her mirror and smiles. She feels the sticker against her cheek and holds the other girl tighter against her side.

She's not sure what to say—not sure what to admit or what to do—so she just shrugs and smiles. "You've done more for me."

It's the truth.

Rachel's eyes are startled but Quinn doesn't have the time to think about it because she pulls them into class and they're late, toes of their shoes covered in the mixed color of brown slushie.

–

The sticker is wilting off of Quinn's cheek as she plops down onto her bed, the top of a golden star diving towards the floor in an anxious motion to abandon white flesh. She gingerly peels it off, staring at the bent silhoutte for a moment before she looks up at her mirror and smiles. She tacks it to the cat's chest on the card like a marking brand. A distinguishing characteristic.

She steps back and smiles.

–

Quinn's back arches and her fingers slip along the back of the chair, metal cool against the tips, as the slow melody of an unheard song skips through her mind. It's as practiced as it is fluid. It's a dance that has no need for rehearsal because it's the dance of her life. It's emotion in her feet; breath in her puffed lungs; water in her eyes. It's a statement of her being and a testament to her legacy.

Her feet move faster against the dark black of a performing stage, a spotlight hindering her vision of the audience; she _knows_, but she is not _ashamed_. She is clothed, decent in their eyes, and her form is too flawless to be the beauty she wishes.

The music is barely a whimper in her ear.

This feeling is like tasting nirvana but not allowed entrance.

"Move your hips more." Comes the friendly advice from beyond the misting movement of the fog of light blinding her. It's smooth—comforting—and has been here her whole life. She tries, but stumbles, fingers grasping at the slipping tile of a wood her ballet shoes cannot catch. Her eyes are closed but she can still see the hand desperately wishing to clasp her shoulder, to provide comfort. She can imagine the endless brown that watches her every move, but she cannot see. They cannot touch here. "Let go." The friend advises, trying to console with what they can.

Quinn shakes her head, a sad acceptance on her lips.

This friend is not the only person in the auditorium.

He's watching—always watching.

She gets up and dances again, eyes harsh and form pristine.

When she wakes up, she stares at her ceiling until her alarm clock sounds to the right, barely noticed.

–

Rachel sends her a picture message, one night, of her standing in an empty room covered in newspaper, face covered in green splotches, an ecstatic and achieved smile on her face. It's message is simple: _What do you think? :D_

Quinn stares at the picture for a good couple of seconds, smile easy and types out her response without even really thinking about it.

_You should wear that shade of green more often._

_ Smartass_ is her reply.

Still, the ex-fashionista (Head Cheerleader came with several responsibilities—overseeing the Fashion Police Club was one of them) wore a self-satisfied smirk when Rachel came to school the next day wearing a green tube top and a nervous smile.

–

Quinn honestly expects Ricky to yell his ass off when he comes around the corner of the bar and sees her working on Chemistry homework. A rather awkward attempt to shove the endless sheets of paper under her stool are fruitless and Ricky just furrows his eyebrows at her. He sits down next to her and the silence makes the blonde fidget.

"Really thought that would work?" Finally, he gruffly inquires, blue eyes giving her a one-over. His beard has some gray in it and when his rough fingers scratch at it Quinn wants to reach out and do it, too.

She shrugs—admits, "Not really."

He chuckles and scratches his arm, still looking her over and she tenses. Ricky's the kind of guy, Quinn's learned, who says what he wants only when he wants to, so she waits.

"Why are you here, Quinn?" His question is shockingly gentle—a side that feels completely unlike him and makes her stomach flip—and she actually physically double takes.

"I...I'm sorry?"

"You're not stupid." He shakes his head. "You're actually kind of bright for a kid—why are you here?"

Quinn shifts on the stool and looks down at the worn wood, the music of the bar around them dying out into a small fade. Her shoulders slump and she shrugs them unknowingly. She thinks of the money—she thinks of the bills—she thinks of her mother. But she doesn't say what she thinks.

"I have no where else to go." It's so broken—barely a whisper—and Ricky's hand is the most comfort she's ever felt in an older man as it rests upon her stiff shoulder.

That's why everyone ends up where they are, isn't it?

Ricky smiles at her for barely a moment—just smiles—and Quinn is surprised to feel her throat close, a little. He's never struck her as a man who cares, but the waitress has come to realize that her first impression of him isn't _Ricky _at all.

"You'll always have someplace to go, then." He says simply before standing back up and moving around the side of the bar, filling in an order Caitlyn brings him with a knowing smile and a wink to Quinn.

The sentimental moment is only broken _a little _when, five minutes later, he's yelling at her to get off her ass and go help table 3.

When she goes to leave, she finds her Chemistry notes neatly piled in a stack behind the bar where no drinks will spill on them.

–

"Quinn," Rachel mumbles into the phone and Quinn yawns. "Is it safe to mix Abilify with any other drugs?"

God help her, Quinn is actually _scared _to answer that question. "_Why_?" She drawls.

"For my ferrets."

Right, like that makes it better.

She apparently has said this out loud from the way Rachel groans.

"Rach, you really shouldn't give animals pharmaceuticals. It's kind of creepy...very Manson-esque."

"For the record, that's not a real word—"

"I'll coin it."

"—and caring about my loved ones' mental health is not at all creepy. Mrs. Snuggleton has been having mood swings and—"

"Mrs. Snuggleton?" Quinn asks, tone incredulous and laugh on the edge of her lips. God help her, but _sometimes _she remembers _why _she used to make fun of Rachel. "Cute."

"I'm sure you've named all of your pets _novel _things, Quinn." Rachel counters and she imagines her with her hands on her hips, tsking. "Have you ever even _had _any pets?" It's said in a way that reminds Quinn eerily of her grandmother—it's all _God forbid __**you **__care about another creature_. But the blonde thinks she might be putting some of her own thoughts on that one.

"I've had two dogs." She says, her voice awkward and stomach tensing.

"What were their names?" Rachel sounds intrigued and the ex-cheerleader sighs.

"Lucky and Hunter." Quinn bites her lip, "Lucky got ran over by a car and Hunter was shot by my grandfather." They weren't intended to be ironic, at the time.

The silence on the other end of the line is awkward, to say the least.

"Quinn, if you ever give me a nickname, I hope it's something along the lines of _failure_."

Quinn rolls her eyes, even if there's a smile in Rachel's voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **7/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

* * *

><p>It's not even for Glee, funnily enough.<p>

It's for Chemistry and Quinn just...wants to hang out with Rachel, so even though they both have A's in the class and don't _need _to study, the blonde stops Rachel before she can get out of the door, teeth nervously fussing at her lip.

"Hey, Rach."

She turns around instantly at the nickname, her smile bright but inquisitive. "Yes, Quinn?"

Quinn repositions her books in her arms, eyes flitting nervously to the ground before they meet eyes that the blonde is quickly becoming attached to seeing. "Do you want to come over, tonight?" Rachel's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and Quinn shrugs. "I don't know, study, or something?"

"While I certainly appreciate your love for academia, Quinn, we don't have another test for a month." Her smile turns a little amused. "Even I am not _that _pre-emptive."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Fine, come over to hang out then." She tries not to sound hopeful—she really, really tries.

Rachel's smile is the biggest thing Quinn's ever seen. "I took the bus, today—"

"Sleep over, then. It's a Friday." Quinn never thought she would be arguing _for _Rachel to come to her house, but she figures things change. _Fabrays pick sides and stay on them _her father used to tell her when she was little and not sure whether she wanted peanut butter and jelly or ham—back when _those _were her biggest problems—_pick and never go back_.

Sure, it was a weird life lesson to learn when she was six, but being a republican and picking sides started early for the Fabrays.

Quinn figures Russell never thought his daughter wouldn't pick _his _side.

If she's going to be friends with Rachel, she's going to be _friends_ with Rachel. She hadn't expected to invite her over and she's not sure what she'll do, tomorrow, when she has to slip out and go to work...but she'll figure something out.

It's a little self-satisfying to see the brunette flounder for a minute though, her mouth wordlessly opening and closing. "I..."

"Yes...?" She drawls out, Quinn's eyebrow quirking, and Rachel shakes her head, blushing in response. It rings somewhere that this might be the first time Rachel's been asked to spend the night at someone's house—at least in high school—and she's not sure why she feels both inexplicably happy and angry at the same time.

"Of course. I'll call my parents before Glee and make sure."

They share a small smile and Quinn nods before she walks forward and makes to grab the brunette's books, her smile turning to a smirk when Rachel holds on with all of her might. "You might want to call, now, since we're about to be _late_ for Glee. " Once again, Rachel looks a little floored and Quinn actually _giggles_. The brunette reluctantly lets go of her school things, looking _ridiculously _confused. "Come on, dopey, I'll carry your books and save you a seat."

Rachel just mutely nods, walking with Quinn towards Glee. When they get to the door, the blonde rolls her eyes, "Rachel...to call your dads you sort of need to, I don't know, _call_?"

With that, she carries the brunette's books into the class and sits down, still giggling at the sight of Rachel fumbling to gather her phone and confusedly raise it to her ear, eyes on Quinn the whole time. When the blonde finally rips her eyes away from Rachel to see Santana above her, a look of utter _shock_ on her face, Quinn blinks. "What?"

Santana just looks from Rachel in the hallway to Rachel's books and sheet music resting on the seat next to Quinn and just blinks again.

"What, Santana, no mocking words?" Quinn tries again, a little freaked that her sometimes-friend is just gaping at her.

The Latina just furrows her eyebrows. "You're giggling." She mumbles like a confused child who opens her lunchbox that was _supposed _to have a sandwich in it but only finds jelly beans—freakishly happy but unsure if this is some kind of weird test.

This time, it's Quinn who's thrown off. "I...what?"

"You're _giggling_." Santana mumbles again and looks between Rachel—who's beaming as she walks through the door, _squealing_ a little at whoever's on the other line—to Quinn, who is still smiling.

For once, Santana Lopez doesn't say _anything_ when Rachel Berry walks through the door and the blonde below her's smile alleviates as she looks at her friend. Quinn kind of feels like she's been caught with her fingers in the cookie jar, the way Santana's looking at her, so before Rachel can hear their conversation, she prods, suddenly looking for some form of validation in those brown eyes above her. Quinn's not sure what the validation is for—or why she needs it so desperately—but she hopes, either way. _"What?"_

Santana still doesn't say anything. She just shakes her head and leans back in her chair, motioning towards Rachel wordlessly before she turns back to Brittany and smiles. Before anything else can be said Rachel bounces over and grabs her books from the ex-cheerleader's hands, a happy look in her eyes. "They said I could stay."

Quinn can feel Santana's eyes boring into the back in her head, but, for once, she doesn't care; She looks at Rachel, leans her head on her shoulder, and smiles.

–

Quinn admits, two hours later, that maybe Rachel coming to her house was kind of a...bad idea.

"Wait, isn't your house that way?"

Those were the first words that tipped her off.

Luckily, Quinn had shoved her waitress uniform into the glove compartment before Rachel could see it (a move that took some quick thinking and a claim that she had to manually open the doors...and ask Rachel to check her trunk for a tire gauge that didn't exist) but she figures if Rachel had found her uniform, then that would have been _really—_

"Quinn, what is this?"

Quinn, of course, looks over at the same time to see Rachel opening her glove compartment, pulling out her uniform. The blonde's eyes widen. "Geez, Berry, do the words personal space mean anything to you?" She snaps and violently grabs the uniform, throwing it into the back seat, fingers tightening on the steering wheel when they return.

"I apologize, Quinn, I was simply looking for a map, fearing that you might have forgotten where we were while we were driving since it took you so long to reply. Though rare, there are documented cases of amnesia brought on by familiar but mechanical acts like driving so I thought—"

"That it would be okay to go through my glove compartment without asking?" Quinn glares at the girl next to her, whose lips slap together. Rachel glares back.

"I apologized." Rachel's jaw sets before she continues, "That still does not explain as to why you have a uniform for—"

"It's a restaurant off Quincy—" Quinn tries offhandedly, eyes glued onto the road and fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that her fingers have no circulation.

"It's a strip club in Troy." Rachel instantly cuts in, her voice practically a growl. "Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid or easily gullible, Quinn Fabray." Rachel's tone has a sharp edge to it that the blonde has _never _heard.

"You _are_ gullible." Quinn mumbles, eyes squinting. Rachel hits her shoulder. "Ow!" She rubs her shoulder, glaring at her seat companion. "It's a burlesque bar, anyways. How did you even know about it?" She doesn't deny it, now, knowing that Rachel has her pegged.

"I may or may not have had a very...strong love for _Flashdance _as a child and thought that burlesque dancing was the proper path to fame and fortune." She scrunches her nose a little. "Or maybe just Juliard. I'm not sure. I was a little delusional." Before Quinn can pipe up, once more, with _you still are_, Rachel hits her arm again.

"Ow! Dang it, Berry, my mom is going to be _really _pissed at me, later, if I come home bruised." Quinn glares but Rachel just ignores her. The sentence chokes her, for a moment, but she passes by it before she can ruminate for too long.

"I knew what you were thinking." Rachel's eyes slit and Quinn deflates a little, in her seat. "We have been having daily lunches for _months _now and I really thought we were getting somewhere. I can't believe that you would hide the fact that you're a _stripper _from me, Quinn! And I am _not_ delusional."

The blonde gapes.

"I am _not_ a stripper!" Her voice is practically two octaves higher and she idly thinks that Rachel might have been impressed with her range if this were any other conversation. She swerves a little and has to remember that she's driving so she pulls over to the side of the road, twisting instantly around to meet her friend's eyes. Her tone is surprisingly soft instead of the cutting she _thought _it would come out as. "I'm not a stripper."

Rachel's shoulders ease a little before she twists over to meet Quinn's eyes. "Would you tell me if you were?"

"Yes." Quinn's a little surprised that she means it. "I'm not a stripper, Rach. I work at the bar." Her eyes flit to the back and she shakes her head, a little, head ducking when she remembers her uniform. "I'm a waitress." She taps her knuckles on the steering wheel. "I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered that you think I'm a stripper."

She catches Rachel smile a little but it's quickly stamped down, her eyes soon serious, though there is a hint of blush on her cheek. "So that's where you were that night..." Rachel surmises and Quinn nods. "So...those women...that man yelling at you...at...the bar...?" Rachel trails off, eyes knowing, all of it clicking into place.

"Yeah." Quinn shrugs.

"_Gypsy—_Puck?"

Quinn sighs. "Yeah." She feels a little guilty and suddenly wants Rachel to understand that it wasn't a conscious decision. "He came in one night and...well...I _work_ there."

Rachel nods thankfully, eyes settling on Quinn's and staying there."Why?"

Quinn sighs, shifting a little. That's simple: "Because we need the money."

The 'we' obviously doesn't escape the girl's pitch-perfect ears and Rachel blinks, her hand hesitant for only a second before she confidently reaches across and twines her fingers with Quinn's. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is the quietest Quinn's ever heard it and the blonde sucks in a gulp of air.

"Because I didn't want you to know." She shrugs. Rachel's hand tenses in hers but Quinn doesn't let it go, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "It's...kind of illegal for me to serve drinks and I didn't want _anyone _to know, not just you." It's a moment later, hesitant, "Kind of...especially you, though. It's not the proudest thing I've done in my life." Quinn laughs a little self-deprecatingly, "And I've done _a lot _of proud things." Rachel scoots closer, her other hand tucking under Quinn's chin and bringing their eyes to meet. Rachel's tone is impossibly gentle.

"You can tell me these things, y'know." Rachel's biting at her lip and, with a small amount of horror, Quinn thinks of one very effective way to make her stop. Luckily, she doesn't move her head across the gap.

"Can I?" She asks, instead, eyes moving back up to connect with Rachel's. The brunette nods without hesitation. "Then I probably should tell you that I moved out of my house into an apartment with my mom."

Rachel blinks but her hand hasn't moved from under Quinn's chin and their fingers are still twined. The brunette gulps. "Well, that certainly makes much more sense than you dragging me all the way out here to murder me in the woods."

Quinn once more rolls her eyes. "Great, so now I'm a murderer _and _a stripper." She deadpans, a hint of mirth in her voice.

Rachel, in a move that surprises them both, leans forward and places the gentlest of kisses on Quinn's cheek, eyes dancing, "I suppose that just means you're a sexy Jason prone to streaking. Breaking the archetype." There's a long moment of silence before Rachel pulls away and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, that was ridiculously inappropriate." Quinn blinks before she realizes Rachel is pulling away. "I'm terrible in certain social situations, you see, and it was the first thing that came to mind so I just—"

Quinn interrupts Rachel by laughing harder than she has in weeks, years, maybe, her fingers gripping tighter onto the brunette's before she can let go.

She laughs until Rachel laughs with her and then they both laugh until they cry.

Quinn finally hiccups and brushes at her eyes, "Thanks." She runs her thumb over the back of the brunette's hand. "I really needed that, I think." They stare at each other for a moment before Quinn uses her free hand to start up the car, oddly resistant to the idea of letting go of Rachel's strong comfort.

"I'm sorry I forced you to tell me like this, Quinn." Rachel honestly sounds _sorry _and Quinn just smiles. Rachel says that she's sorry for forcing her _a lot_, it seems, but Quinn's never had anyone to even try to force her, so she doesn't mind at all.

"I'm sorry you had to force me to tell you at all." The most surprising part about the statement is that Quinn _is_.

Halfway through the ride to Quinn's apartment, they both start giggling about the image of Quinn running bra-less throughout McKinnley with a butcher knife and how that could legitimately break the "scary movie formula".

–

Quinn and Rachel are laughing when they make their way up to the blonde's apartment. A blonde brow arches as she leans up against the green door to 107B and Rachel smiles in anticipation. "You ready?" She asks, twirling her keys around her finger like Gene Kelly, a move that makes the little starlet smile all the wider.

Rachel nods excitedly.

Quinn slips her keys into the door and edges it open wide enough to see into it, Rachel's small fingers stopping her before they can walk in.

"Am I the first person that's been here?" She asks it with a small amount of hesitation and, honestly, Quinn's not that sure what the tone means. Rachel's brown eyes are batting at her from underneath surprisingly-long eyelashes and something in the blonde twists.

"Puck helped us move but..." She purses her lips, weirdly nervous, "Yeah. Yeah you are." There's a look in Rachel's eyes but, again, she can't place it, and before Quinn can say anything, her fellow student smiles so wide that she forgets what she _could_ say. "It's not like it's a big deal or anything." She mutters after a moment, eyes drawn to the floor.

Rachel Berry, ever pig-headed and resilient, just smiles wider and rocks on the balls of her feet, "Yes it is."

"No it's not." Quinn petulantly protests, eyes slitting. Rachel's smile, creepily, grows even wider.

"It _so_ is." Rachel looks damn near _ecstatic _now and, while Quinn's freakishly _happy_ about that, she tries to frown. "We're friends."

This just makes Quinn's eyebrow quirk. "I thought we were friends, before. We've established this several times."

"But this makes _me_ more important than all of your _other_ friends." She says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You just admitted that I'm your best friend, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn was about to say something but _that_ stops her right in her tracks, her mouth hanging wide open like a fish. "I...when did I say..._what_?" The last time Quinn had a 'best friend' was when she was in the second grade and Kelsi Livingston asked her to be her best friend so that she could have a cookie. It was a fickle relationship that ended in heartbreak ten minutes later when the little blonde saw Kelsi asking Ken to be her best friend for a gummy bear.

Quinn was always guarded with her cookies, after that.

"As I am an actress who is highly skilled at monitoring the undertones of relationships—both scripted on the screen and real-life, off—I can understand how you might not keep up with my deductive reasoning." Rachel says obnoxiously, but the twinkle in her eyes and the wide smile on her face makes Quinn want to punch her a _little _less.

"Really, now." Quinn deadpans, her eyes narrowing dangerously. The girl across from her, now gripping her forearm and bouncing up and down excitedly, doesn't seem to notice; or maybe doesn't care. Both are pretty likely.

"Here, let me spell it out slowly for you," Rachel starts and suddenly the urge to punch her is back. "You invite me to your house to spend the night; You tell me about your secret life as a hooker; You share with me about your troubles; You just admitted that I was the second person to see your new apartment, regardless of the fact that you have been here for _quite _a while; I am about to meet your mother, a woman that Finn only met on your anniversary, and that's because he snuck into your house and got caught." Rachel's voice is proud, smile wide, and Quinn doesn't even _want _to know why she knows that last tid-bit. "I'm your best friend." She concludes.

"Wouldn't _Puck_ be my best friend, through that logic? He came here first." Quinn regrets asking a moment later when Rachel vehemently shakes her head and says something that makes Quinn's whole face as red as Rudolph's nose.

"No. That makes him your best _boy_-friend. I'm your best _girl_-friend." Rachel says this like she doesn't really understand what she's implying—even though some fear at the lower part of Quinn's stomach makes her think she _does—_but she tries to chalk it up to Rachel just being...Rachel.

"Can you please not scream-imply that you're my lesbian lover to all of my trashy apartment complex? You already belted out that I'm a hooker." Quinn quirks her eyebrow, her tone trying and failing to sound scathing because, honestly, she's more amused at the winning look on Rachel's face.

"But I—"

"Can be my best friend. Whatever." Quinn rolls her eyes and tries not to smile when Rachel kind of _squeals _and jumps up and down, bringing her forearm with her. "Yeah, yeah, Pippy Longstocking, I'm hungry, can we go inside, now?"

Rachel nods energetically and, surprisingly, the girl and Quinn's mother hit it off pretty well. It might help that, ironically enough, Judy Fabray's favorite movie of all time is _Funny Girl_, a fact that Quinn never knew.

"Quinn!" Rachel shrieks, indignant, "How could you _possibly _fail to mention to your newly-adorned best friend that your mother is my soul-mate?" The younger blonde just blinks when her mother laughs—guffaws, really—and she shrugs her shoulders, smiling shyly between the pair. It's weird, really, getting to know _both_ her mother and Rachel, like this.

She kind of likes it.

Until her mother pulls out the photo albums. Then she doesn't like it as much. She honestly tries not to bristle every time she sees her father but, then again, so does her mother, and she thinks that the dancing happiness in Rachel's eyes kind of makes it a little worth it.

The majority of Quinn's pictures from before she was _Quinn _were all purposefully discarded from this album upon the young blonde's request when she turned 13 years of age. Some of the pictures stayed, of course, because they were too important—a fact Quinn can't deny, now, since she knows a large majority of their happy family memories were when she was young and Lucy and seven—and Rachel's eyebrows comedically go up to her hair-line when she sees Quinn as a young little girl. It's before Quinn's hit puberty—before _anything's _hit her—and she's smiling care-free and happy.

Quinn looks to the side to see her mother reverently slipping down the picture and Rachel's seriously gaping.

"Put up your jaw, Berry." Quinn drawls, knowing that, yes, she was just outed as a natural big-nosed red-headto her now-best friend, but she doesn't think the younger girl has to be so obviously thrown by it. The nose, at least, isn't very obvious in the picture (she's, like, six) but the hair is unavoidable.

Rachel mumbles an apology before she nods for Judy to continue, a blush tinting her cheeks.

There's one picture that her mother actually pulls out because Rachel's gasping—as dramatically as ever—at it like it's this giant dirty secret. It's the only picture in the entire album that isn't _perfect_, backs aligned and smiles in place. It's impromptu; a photo shuttered from the edge of a bed, two girls wrestling with giggles on their faces. "You have a sister?" Rachel's fingers brush over the edge of the picture like if she touches it it will disintegrate, so Quinn takes it to take a better look. Judy Fabray had a separate album for the since-married Lindsay Lauren once-Fabray as, due to their age differences and schedules, they rarely took pictures together that weren't family pictures.

Lauren went by her middle name until she had her own children and suddenly, it was all _Lindsay-Lindsay-Lindsay_ but, like most things from your teenage years, Lauren still stuck. It's a little bit of a pay-back for Quinn, in a small spiteful way, since Lauren hates her name so much. Lauren's always been the perfect little girl—the perfect daughter—the perfect wife. She has a husband who she doesn't cheat on and who doesn't cheat on her and two children. On Facebook last year Quinn saw pictures of their house and noticed she even has a golden retriever and a white picket fence. She's also a natural blonde.

It's kind of sickening.

Quinn blinks, realizing she's still looking at the picture.

Judy, for a reason Quinn is sure Rachel doesn't know and is thankfully not about to ask, had taken all of their family pictures out of the album, save for this one.

She gently skims her fingers over her sister's face, looking over to see her mother with the same look that she knows is present in her eyes. Quinn doesn't remember a lot from her childhood, but she remembers this.

A little girl dressed in her mother's dress, hair wet and makeup smeared all over her face. She'd wanted to be a little princess. She stormed into the room when her mother was sick with the flu and tucked messily under the bed and the covers, her father at work even though it was a Saturday, and started yelling for her mother to do something that Quinn can't really remember.

Her sister had soon boomed in right after her and ended up dancing about with her, eyes alight and shining for one of the few memories Quinn can remember them. Judy, even sick, had reached over to her bedside table and grabbed the camera she had left there for a reason the blonde had never known.

The picture was snapped, then, and still stays in front of Quinn right now like a reminder.

A tall blonde—about sixteen, or so—is twirling a little eight year girl around their parents room with nothing but joy and love in her eyes, behind them a Popsicle Father's Day frame sitting precariously on their father's side of the bed.

Two days later, Quinn got the flu and she never could remember Lauren smiling at her, like that, again.

Her mother must notice the way Quinn's looking at the picture because she hastily snatches it out of her grip, her sure way of saying _don't think about things, Quinn, you can't fix them_. The younger Fabray knows all too well her mother's policy on fixing things.

"Quinn?" Rachel sounds hesitant, looking between the two women with some small confusion on her face. Judy just tucks the picture back into the album and hands it back to her new-found soul-mate Rachel Berry like nothing happened.

"Yeah, she's eight years older than me." Quinn has long since mastered the art of turning a frown into a smile. It's the same smile she's sure Rachel will find in most of the pictures. Her phone rings and after noticing the _same _number that's been calling, she shakes her head and silences it. "She's a Smith, now; Got married and moved out of Lima." Rachel nods but is looking at her like she knows there's more, but is thankfully quickly distracted by more pictures of her best friend when she was a little girl.

Quinn should know better; Rachel coos and "aww's!" and pokes Quinn on the nose over her pictures, but the little brunette is like a skinny short elephant who never forgets.

Rachel's fingers slip easily onto Quinn's hips when they're alone in her room and the taller girl tries not to focus on the fact that it makes her shoulders relax. "Your sister wasn't at your dad's funeral." The other girl has always been a tad too observant and Quinn's still not used to the way she talks about things—she's still not used to the way Rachel talks about things like things are _supposed _to be talked about. It's the first time Rachel's brought that day up since it happened.

Quinn almost says, "I wouldn't have been, either, if I had managed to make it the hell out of here." but she doesn't. Instead, she gives Rachel a false smile that she knows she can see through and simply states, "She was busy." She actually probably was. Quinn wouldn't know, though—it's not like she talked to her, or anything.

It's enough for Rachel to (for once) not push the issue. Her eyes, instead, seem to settle on something across the room. Quinn turns her head to see Rachel gazing so intently at her mirror that she thinks it might suddenly burst into flames, or something. Her gaze follows and she smiles lightly at the card tacked on the frame.

"You kept my card?" It sounds so uncharacteristically meek that Quinn doesn't even bother with a sarcastic comment or a feigned act of disinterest. She simply squeezes Rachel's hand and smiles widely at her.

"Of course I did."

Rachel looks like she might want to say so much that she doesn't know how to fit it into words so Quinn just waits. Surprisingly enough, the sentence isn't as long as Quinn's expecting.

"It's practically the only decoration you have in your room." Rachel sounds as amused as she does a little sad and Quinn just shrugs her shoulders.

"Yeah." Quinn's never had much for decoration or personal sentiments. She thinks that maybe she always knew she was going to get kicked out—maybe she's never really had a home. It's not until Rachel squeezes her hand that Quinn realizes she's actually said this out loud.

Even now the only thing that feels like home in this entire room is that card. Thankfully, though, she doesn't say this part out loud, because there is such a thing as too much.

Rachel looks at her with something so _startling _in her eyes that Quinn has to look away—has to focus on that stupid little picture of a cat and dog—and try not to shuffle on the bed. The brunette's vocal cords work for a moment—a small noise leaving—before she shuts her mouth and taps her foot. It's a habit she does when she's nervous—when she's flustered (or angry, sometimes, too)—and this finally makes hazel eyes twist back.

Rachel's smiling at her with this freakishly happily strained smile—like this warms her heart, this discovery of a card on a mirror, as much as it does stab a knife right through it—but she drops it and seemingly makes it her goal to perk her friend up, something that Quinn's found her best friend is really good at.

Quinn's happy she drops it.

Two hours later, both of them on Quinn's bed and totally _belting out _Pat Benatar, Quinn decides that being Rachel Berry's best friend isn't so bad and she, apparently, is thinking the same thing, because when the song finishes and they're both giggling, Rachel grasps Quinn's hand firmly and leans in like she's telling a secret.

"Hey, Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my best friend, too."

They both share small smiles before Sir Mixalot comes onto Quinn's iPod and her cheeks instantly flare red. When the brunette _cackles _at her, Quinn decides to sing the whole damn thing, just to spite her. It doesn't matter if knowing all of the lyrics to _Baby Got Back _is an admission enough.

The next day, Rachel wakes her up at some ungodly hour of the barely-morning to go jogging outside with her because, "_No, Quinn, I don't have a portable elliptical" _and _"missing one exercise can severely hinder my metabolism and slow down my growth rate, both mentally and physically." _

Rachel doesn't appreciate the exhausted quip Quinn makes about her never getting taller, so she finds herself out at 6 AM running around her neighborhood with a determined and annoyingly _awake _Rachel Berry.

It takes about fifteen minutes before she starts feeling kind of good about it, and finds an oddly comforting silence in the pads of her feet meeting the concrete, Rachel's hitting the ground right next to hers. Quinn has always been athletic and, despite a dead-stop for nine months, maniacally pushed herself harder this summer than even Sue Sylvester used to push her.

Well, except for that one time that Coach actually managed to convince the zoo-keeper to let her borrow that tiger. Quinn was never really pushed harder than _that_.

She's pleasantly surprised, though, when Rachel doesn't just keep up with her, but actually competes with her. It's something Quinn's found an odd love for, in their relationship—a competitiveness that isn't like any other area of her life.

It's not spiteful, like Santana, or maniacal, like Coach...it's...unintentional.

Rachel makes Quinn want to be better and, for some reason, the blonde thinks that if the glint in sparkling, _awake _brown eyes is any indication, she does the same for her.

So it's no surprise when they both end up even more exhausted and sweaty, _three hours later_, collapsed on Quinn's bed like neither one of them can move anymore; which, by the way, Quinn's pretty sure she _can't_.

It was like _murder _getting up those steps and into 107B.

"I've...I..." Rachel is gasping against her best friend's side, her head resting on an unintentionally exposed stomach and even though pale skin is hot and her head is heavy, Quinn doesn't mind. For another minute the only sound filling the room is both of their gasping breaths before Rachel dares try to speak again. "I've never...ran that hard...before." She weakly leans her head up to catch Quinn's gaze and a look of accomplishment shines between them.

"Me neither." Is all that she dares supply, breath too precious. They smile proudly at each other and let the same silence that enveloped them while they were running envelop them now. She closes her eyes, content, and sighs.

Quinn's sure she's going to have to wash her sheets because sweat's gotten all in them, now, but she doesn't care. Her fingers mindlessly reach down to brush a strand of limp, mostly dry, hair off of Rachel's forehead. She feels Rachel lean into her, dark eyes searching over a content face for a moment, before she relaxes again and hums, their breaths eventually evening out to a gentle pull of wisps between them.

When Quinn squints she can see Rachel looking at her mirror; looking at a long card of a puppy and a kitten—the only thing tacked up in the blonde's room—and she can feel her best friend's mind shift beneath her fingers.

The fan feels cool on her neck but dauntingly _freezing _on her stomach when Rachel finally whispers that she has to take a shower ten minutes later and stumbles out of the bed and into the adjoining bathroom down the hall. Quinn thinks it's going to be a little awkward when Rachel realizes that she didn't bring in a change of clothes.

Sure enough, Quinn's almost asleep thirty minutes later when she hears Rachel's loud, embarrassed shriek of dismay. Luckily, her mother has already gone to work. "Aren't actresses supposed to be ready for full-frontal?" Quinn yells through the other side of the door, Rachel's clothes in her arm and wearing a huge smirk.

The scoff Quinn can hear clearly through the door means that if Rachel had been close enough, the blonde would probably have a bruise on her arm.

Quinn blushes.

Rachel would also be naked, so maybe it's better that she is where she is.

"I'll have you know, Quinn, that while I am fully prepared for a wide arrange of situations and parts, I have a full-disclosure agreement evident in my contract that explicitly states that I will not undergo nudity of _any _kind." Rachel whips open the door barely enough so that Quinn can see her nose and one eye, and scowls.

"I guess you won't get any rom-coms, then." Is the quick-timed response.

Somewhere around the feeling of Rachel's head on her stomach and the look in her eyes when she awkwardly sticks her head out of the small bathroom, fully, just to glare at her with full effect, Quinn's decides that she's going to call in sick, today.

* * *

><p>Reviews are a useful tool for a writer. As in: what am I doing wrong? What am I doing right? I like feedback because it helps me grow. So you should help me grow. ;)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **8/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

* * *

><p>"Why do you do it?" Quinn asks, one night, head tilting back and arm cradled against the wood of the bar, head lolling to the side to take in her sweating, now-waitressing friend.<p>

"Do what?" Caitlyn asks, wiping a hand over her forehead.

"Dance."

Caitlyn gives her a look, for a second, before she puts down her empty tray, and gives her a levelling stare. "Why do you watch?"

Quinn's lips purse for a moment. "Because I wish I could."

It's probably the wisest thing she's ever heard Caitlyn say, what follows.

"Well, that's why we all do _everything_, isn't it? Because we wished we could do it somewhere else?"

She just picks back up her tray and it must be heavier than it was, before, now, because the weight on Caitlyn's shoulders looks like how it feels on Quinn's.

–

"I like this shade of green. Whoever picked it out is awesome." Quinn smiles as she sits on Rachel's bed, nervousness slowly transforming into just slightly-awkward ease. Rachel plops down next to her, rolling her eyes with a gentle smile, fingers wrapping a string from her comforter about its length, the soft pattering of two ferrets against the edge of the wall surprisingly lulling. They don't smell like Quinn's always heard ferrets smell.

"Yeah, also a little full of herself." Rachel breathes out a tense breath from her nose and Quinn doesn't know why, but her fingers slip onto her knee and it's a marvel the way the anxiety at having someone else in her home visibly leaves her friend's shoulders.

"Full is a little harsh." She's already skimmed around the room and snooped just the slightest, and now her eyes are settled firmly on brown. She'd been surprised at some of the books on Rachel's shelf—Kafka and _Foucault_, for Pete's sakes—and not, at others—Barbra's biography, for one—but the room, as simple and elegant as it is, just...feels like Rachel, and there's something wonderful and soothing in that. "I'd like to say I just have a firm appreciation. For myself." She jokes and Rachel laughs, thumb idly stroking down the back of her hand while it rests on her knee.

They end up doing homework on the couch downstairs which leads to them just watching movies and doing nothing but talking, together. They talk about Humphrey Bogart and Huston and Curtiz. Wells and Beatty.

It turns out that the brunette knows her movies—knows them pretty _well—_when it comes to American cinema and it's a little surprising to throw out the name of a director and not just have someone stare with their mouth wide open, or pretend they're listening. Likewise, when Rachel starts talking about Carrie Fisher, Quinn knows that she isn't just that _chick from Star Wars_ and the other girl's smile and excitement isn't over-bearing just...infectious.

Rachel isn't a fan of foreign cinema (which Quinn thinks is ridiculous) but Quinn isn't a fan of horror (which Rachel thinks is horrendous) and they both end up writing down a list of movies to watch, together. They end up falling asleep on the couch to, funnily enough, _Wizard of Oz_, and Quinn has a dream about a little girl falling in front of a short, smiling woman and begging her to find her way home.

–

Quinn finds that, despite her surprised and short-lived hesitancy about being Rachel Berry's best friend, she is _not _going to just steal her cookies. In fact, when Quinn slams her locker shut, two weeks later, Rachel Berry is standing there with a bag of cookies in her hand and a smile.

It's touching to Quinn because she told Rachel about Kelsi in amusement, last week, but it scares the _hell _out of Santana, who was walking with the tall blonde, rambling about how to keep the Cheerios in shape, and doesn't notice the stealthy little short girl.

"Jesus, Berry!" Santana shrieks when Quinn slams her locker, clutching her heart like someone told her Breadstix went out of business. "With your brand of creep I'm scared that one day you're gonna snap and come in here and _Carrie _all our asses."

Quinn looks like she's about to step forward and actually _protect _her short friend, but Rachel's amused, humor-filled voice pipes up before she can try. "Well, unlike...Quinn...I'd kill the whole entire school with my shirt _on_." For a second, the blonde swears—with the way Rachel's annoyed eyes meet Santana's—that it's actually the _other _head cheerleader's voice that she's seconds from muttering.

There's a moment of silence—where Rachel's amused smirk meets Quinn's startled eyes—and she realizes that maybe her small friend knows not to push Santana (or maybe she doesn't want to hurt another one of Quinn's friends) and she's oddly thankful. And then she realizes that _she's _the one who's been insulted and remembers the conversation from two weeks ago, eyes twinkling, before they both burst out laughing, leaning on each other for support as they walk down the hall, not a single word uttered the other ex-cheerleader's way.

At the end of the hall, Rachel makes a rather _striking _impression of Michelle Pfeiffer with pouty lips and a knife and Quinn feels like she's going to _die_.

She pretends not to notice Santana's eye twitching across the room, a baffled look on her face, because she knows that none of McKinnley has really seen her be herself...but she's more than a little proud to know that no one in McKinnley has seen this side of Rachel, either, save for her.

She carries Rachel's books to her next class, laughing the whole way.

–

"Oh, joy, so the shrub is excited that she got to meet Broody-Moody-Judy?" Santana rolls her eyes the same time Quinn narrows hers.

"I told you to _stop _calling my mother that." The blonde's voice is dangerously low and the Latina just pops a grape into her mouth. She's not supposed to be eating solid food but the Latina could never stomach those shakes so the annoyed friend pays it no mind.

"I don't understand." Rachel's eyes flit between their rare visitor for lunch (as in, this is her first time ever setting foot in the auditorium during lunch so, really, no one's even sure why Santana's here) and Quinn, "I thought your mother was quite lovely."

"Santana doesn't—"

"She's a bitch."

"—like my mother—"

"She's a _bitch_."

"Very much." Quinn finishes and throws at grape at her scowling dark friend, glaring, "She's my mother."

"She's a bitch." She repeats.

"She's my _mother_." Quinn sighs, knowing this is a piece of logic they can't just overlook. "And she's gotten better." She insists. Rachel looks between them and Santana just purses her lips and pops another grape into her mouth. This is different than when they used to get into juvenile _Your Mom _fights after practice. Santana genuinely hates her mother.

"Whatever, Q." She dismisses, "She's still a bitch."

Rachel doesn't appear comfortable enough around Santana to say anything even though she obviously thinks otherwise and when Quinn helps her load up her car with her props from a song she performed in the auditorium on a whim, today, the smaller girl seems to ease. "What's Santana's problem with your mother?"

Rachel seems baffled by the fact that anyone would hate a mother that's been there for them their whole lives (and says as much, in not so many terms) later that night, and Quinn just shrugs. To be honest, Quinn has no _idea _why Santana hates her mother so much; but it's probably the same reason why she doesn't bring up popsicle sticks, or stopped wearing rings on her hands their sophomore year, or doesn't tell Rachel she looks like a _Kindergartener _anymore, with Quinn in the room.

She's observant.

Quinn doesn't...hate her mother.

She just doesn't know this new one very much, either.

–

Finn always walks Rachel to her locker and kisses her on the cheek before walking away. While things have been awkward and silence-filled, between them, he even smiles at Quinn hesitantly before stomping towards his next class like the golly green giant he is. "He's starting to warm up to our friendship." Rachel starts, smiling towards Quinn naively.

She doesn't like the thought of Finn warming up to _anything_. She crosses her arms. She feels like something sacred has been a little tainted—as ludicrous as she knows that is—and can't help the bitterness at the edge of her cheeks. This means they've talked, the two of them, about _their _friendship. She can imagine it. On the bed...cooling down...Finn would lean to Rachel and tell her that he doesn't think that Quinn's a good idea—that she must be up to something—and Rachel would stick up for her, but might always secretly wonder, maybe. The worst part is that he's right, too.

Not about all of it, but some of it. Quinn's _not _a good person—she's not scheming anything—but she's not a good idea. At all.

"I'm sure." She drawls, closing her own locker, quite content that she manages not to slam it like she suddenly wants to.

"I'd like if you could just..." Rachel trails off, scratching the top of her cheek. When Quinn doesn't answer, just crosses her arms and stares off, she continues, "You two could be friends." She highly doubts that. But Finn's trying to be cordial (because they've always been good at that: cordial) and she has been, too, and she's sure that's all Rachel's going to get because, honestly, she doesn't _want _to have to spend time around Rachel and Finn. And Finn and Rachel. And the both of them—together—because it makes her _jealous_. It makes her stomach churn and her teeth chatter and her fingernails bite because...God. It's stupid.

But she's jealous because she just wants someone to love her, like that.

Quinn's not scheming anything...but she's definitely not a good idea.

–

For some odd reason, this year, Schuester (after he finally ceased stopping Quinn after every class and meeting to tell her that if she ever needed to talk, he'd be there) decided to stick to _one _routine for competition this year, instead of having to do anything last minute. It's both a joy and a curse because, while Quinn is finally excited that her Spanish teacher turned Glee coach might actually be understanding that consistency is _important _in competing, they actually can't _settle _on a routine.

So, really, not much has changed in Glee club since last year, due to the fact that every week they're memorizing and rehearsing routines that just change, anyways.

Apparently, while William Schuester is starting to understand the importance of consistency...he isn't actually starting to understand the definition.

Glee is kind of strenuous (and sometimes wears Quinn out before work) but it's _fun _and it makes her smile and laugh and feel good about something. Rachel sits next to her, more often than not—the club _still _hasn't gotten used to that—even though she's dating Finn, and this week Schuester has apparently decided to do another one of his little weekly challenges between the club (the blonde, by this point, has stopped trying to find the _consistency _in all of this).

Mike and Brittany, of course, are captains, and Quinn finds herself on the other blonde's team along with Rachel, Santana instantly complaining when Finn meanders over to Mike's side to stand next to her.

Quinn watches Rachel dance differently than the rest of Glee. When Rachel sings, she's like an angel, but when she dances, she's like a nun. Not stiff—like the simile might imply—but she _glides_. She floats and twirls and glides and the blonde thinks it's funny, this rehearsal, when she realizes that she equates Rachel with her faith.

When she sings she's a symbol of faith—an angel—a _messenger_. She reaches her fingers into Quinn's chest and wraps them around her beating heart like a vice and stirs. She _transposes_. Rachel Berry, singing, is something that Plato supposed all forms of art tried to hint towards; re-enact; replicate. Rachel Berry is transcendence and God's heavenly grace. She's the voice of God, himself—the angel who brings his message to Quinn's ears and tickles her lobes. When Rachel sings it's intangible. It's unreachable. It's a message Quinn can only hear in her ears and feel in her heart, but can't grasp with her fingertips. It's heaven's taunt.

But when Rachel _dances_? She's a floating, gliding nun. She's a _teacher _of discipline and faith and prosperity. She is the lilting physical embodiment of all that's right and good and the warning sign of everything that _isn't_. She moves with grace and agility and life and Quinn's fingers can feel her as she moves. Light fingers wrap around a small waist as they spin, or their fingers clasp with a lack of hesitancy Quinn's never felt towards anything else in her life. When Quinn watches Rachel dance, she feels guided—she feels supported—she feels her faith reassert itself because Rachel Berry is gliding before her eyes. This messenger—this angel—this gliding, smiling, teasing nun is right in front of her, and Quinn can't help but _believe_.

It stirs so many things in so many places within Quinn that she finds it funny that her best friend makes her believe so much of the Bible is wrong when she's never believed so much of _God _is right.

When their eyes meet, brown flickers and sparkles and Rachel _knows_, but Quinn's not really all that frightened about the prospect. She just smiles and nods in beat to the song until Rachel's mouth opens and Quinn can't keep beat anymore; she can only stare and say hello to the sublime.

–

It's funny, really, that she's finding out that utilizing some areas of life helps with others. Memorizing drinks helps with chemistry because she understands components, now (and Caitlyn, apparently, was a Chemist major before she decided to dance). Ricky knows about cars and teaches her how to fix her tail lights, even buying the light for her. Quinn even helps Cindy with her online math class when the young mother rescues her from an awkward conversation with a patron a bit too into her. They all help each other and even though she hasn't been there for long she feels like she kind of fits in, somewhere.

Maybe she never expected to fit in in a Burlesque bar but, hey, beggars can't be choosers.

–

"I didn't sleep with Jessie, you know." Rachel whispers, one night, ear buds barely plugged into her ears and head resting in Quinn's lap. Her ballet class was canceled, tonight, but she still has a rehearsal for a piano recital with two hours to kill, so she showed up at her best friend's door with a smile.

Quinn looks down and tries to catch her eyes, but they stay firmly on the smooth stitch of the couch.

"I know." And she always had. Rachel had boasted about it for a week—too much like a gangly teenage boy that she obviously _wasn't—_and Quinn knew her better even when they weren't technically friends than to believe that one.

"I don't know why I lied to Finn about it." Rachel sighs and the blonde honestly has no idea where this is coming from but also isn't really sure she _wants _to know.

"I do." Quinn says easily, eyes gauging her friend's reaction, "It's usually easier to lie than to be hurt for no reason."

Their eyes finally meet, an understanding flashing between them, and Rachel's hand twists about to rest within Quinn's. She doesn't say anything for the rest of the two hours but she doesn't have to.

–

The first three times Quinn goes to Rachel's house, her parents aren't there, and it spawns a pretty awkward conversation when, on the fourth, the blonde's not sure what to do.

"Okay, I thought my parents were pretty negligent...but you _do _have parents, right?" Quinn asks, pencil tapping at her binder. The sound of Rachel's ferrets rolling around in the background is oddly comforting (she totally thought they were gross, at first, but now she kind of thinks they're...sort of...maybe a little cute; if you can get over that musk smell that Rachel hides with three cans of lysol and perkiness). "I mean, you didn't just make up your gay dads for your biography or something—you're not really in the Witness Protection Plan?"

Rachel turns her head slowly up from her book, the look on her face incredulous. "I would have you know that, while I think the event would be thrilling and add much creativity to my music and memoirs, I have never witnessed a crime, let alone participated in one."

"Not all members of the Witsec..." Quinn starts mumbling (so what if a large majority of her pregnant days were spent watching _In Plain Sight _on Puck's broken down TV) but Rachel shuts her off with a cutting look. "Nevermind. Your parents are, like, _never _here."

Rachel shifts uncomfortably on the bed, her eyes shifting to somewhere along the comforter. "They're busy." She instantly becomes defensive. "Their schedules are hectic but productive and if you, for one moment, claim my parents are negligent because of their sexuality, I swear to God, Quinn Fabray—"

Quinn blinks, "Has someone needed to accuse them of that, before?" Apparently, Rachel's home-life is pretty much exactly what she used to tease her about—as non-existent as her social life was. Quinn feels pretty shitty right about now.

"I...no!" She instantly defends, hands fidgeting and foot tapping against the frame of the bed as she hastily leans up into a more professional pose. "No one's been close enough to even notice—"

Quinn finds herself floundering in a weird sense of protectiveness, "So there's something to notice?"

Rachel huffs and slams her book down on her bed. "Quinn! Let me finish a sentence."

Quinn shuts up and quirks an eyebrow. When a whole entire minute of silence goes by with no sentence, she rolls her tongue, "O-_kay_. That was a great sentence, Rachel."

"Shut up."

"An even better one."

"I _will _kick you out of my house, Quinn." Rachel growls, her foot seriously thumping up against her thigh, now, and the blonde suddenly realizes that _that's _what the brunette does when she's losing patience. She silences herself.

"Sorry. I'm just worried." They both blink at the unusual confession and Quinn shakes her head, leaning back and tiredly rubbing her shoulder, trying to look infinitely more interested at the wall. "They're just, like, never here."

Rachel looks down at her palms before looking back up at Quinn, looking torn between touched and cautious. "They're admittedly not here as much as I would like." She confesses which is surprising in and of itself because Rachel Berry, all bravado and self-proclaimed star, is pretty tight-lipped about her _personal _personal life—not the one she tries to display to the world for public relations (which, Rachel keeps insisting, is important even if she isn't famous _yet_). Quinn shifts up on the bed, Rachel's foot still tapping, and she bites her lip. "They make it up, though." She insists, sudden and with a great enthusiasm that is too quick to be genuine, and Quinn shifts a little closer. "They watch all of my videos I upload when they're on conferences and we Skype. Daddy leaves me notes every morning before he leaves—because he gets up before I do, now—and Dad cooks dinner once a month. We sit down and watch re-runs of _Friends_, together, on our family nights and—"

Quinn slowly raises her hand to her friend's shoulder, the other coming to tuck up her chin. "Hey, you don't have to convince me." She shakes her head when Rachel avoids her eyes. She bites her lips, hesitant, before she cautiously asks, "Are they gonna be home, tonight?" Quinn's used to the ideal of busy parents and, honestly, she's not particularly surprised that Rachel's _very _successful Two Gay Dads are rarely home (one being one of the most-wanted surgeons in all of Ohio and the other being a lawyer that Quinn, ever prone to hearing her father's incessant rambling about the inadequacies of competition, actually heard her father _praise _for once. It doesn't help that they both work in the same hospital, nowadays).

Rachel tenses, fingers nervously twisting as they raise to reciprocate the touch on Quinn's shoulder, thumb and forefinger pressing together on the fabric, eyes falsely enthralled by it. "They don't get home until late most Thursdays."

Quinn thinks it's ironic that it's Thursdays, of all days, and then she realizes that she always ends up at her best friend's house on _Thursdays_, and suddenly it clicks into place, but she still asks for good measure, "It's _not_ because of me, right?"

Rachel looks blind-sided, "No!" She instantly—and a little too loudly, for how close they are, on the bed—pipes and Quinn winces. "Of course not. I'd love for you to meet them I just...well...I..."

Quinn leans forward just slightly, catching Rachel's suddenly-elusive eyes and she nods, _getting _it. Rachel doesn't have to admit it because no one knows what it's like more to sit there, utterly alone, in a large empty house every night.

"They can meet me in the morning, then." Quinn pulls away, tone bored but eyes light. Rachel blinks, openly grabbing at straws, only reaching air where the blonde's shirt once was.

"I...what?"

"They can meet me in the _morning_." Quinn slowly announces, silently thinking that it's nice to talk to _Rachel _like she's a child, for once. It's a little liberating.

"It's a school night!" Rachel sounds dumbfounded and Quinn can barely stomach the giggle in her throat.

"Yeah, so they better be here to make breakfast. You're always rambling about how it's the most important meal of the day." Quinn tries to bait her friend and soon Rachel's foot is once more tapping on the bed.

"Quinn, do _not _treat my fathers as your personal house servants. You can make your _own _breakfast."

"Good, don't mind if I do. That means I'm staying, then." Quinn opens back up her book and can't help the smug grin that slips onto her features. She doesn't have to look up to see Rachel's sputtering look because she can _hear _it.

"I—you—Quinn—that's _cheating_." Rachel finally settles on, whining, foot surprisingly stilling on the bed. Quinn looks up to see her friend's shoulders relaxing, a slow smile slipping onto her face.

"I'm the master of manipulation." Quinn hums, winking at her begrudgingly amused friend. "You should just admit it; it'll make it easier for you in the long run."

"I most certainly _will not_." Rachel leans forward, pushing her binder to the side and laying down so that she's next to Quinn, their eyes catching and staying. "That title is rightfully mine."

Quinn quirks her eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? What did _you _ever do to get the title?" They're both well aware of some of Quinn's greater schemes, so she needn't explain. For a moment, Quinn thinks Rachel's going to just drop it, but then she whispers conspiratorially in her ear, tone wistful in a way that makes her stomach clench.

"I got Mr. Ryerson fired."

Quinn can feel Rachel's smirk against the edge of her ear and she bites her lip, knowing that if she turned, right now...

Still, there's something undeniably sensual and satisfying about hearing her best friend's dirty secrets of manipulation. She knows of the Finn-stealing tactics and a couple of more tame things the girl did for parts, but nothing about a man's actual career. It freakishly makes Quinn smirk.

"No." She draws it out in disbelief, laughing, turning her head—but not _too _much—eyes bright. "What did you say? To get him fired, I mean."

Rachel shamefully bites her lip, "I might have heavily implied that he was adamantly participating in a...close...not-quite-paternal relationship with a student in his Glee club."

Quinn is silent for a moment until she bursts out laughing.

"Quinn!" Rachel shushes her, regardless of the fact that no one's home, smile on her lips, "He was trying to single-handedly end my career—"

"Then why haven't you offed Schuester, too?" Quinn giddily questions, still laughing, and Rachel rolls her eyes, shoving her shoulder, ignoring the dig.

"I honestly just might have...elaborated upon something I actually witnessed occurring in a classroom." Rachel shakes her head, "Also, Sandy Ryerson was—and is—just a creepy old man."

Quinn laughs harder.

"Honestly, he had a horrible fashion sense—" Before Quinn can say anything to _that_, Rachel clamps her hand over the blonde's mouth, "Don't." She warns and her best friend pulls away, still laughing joyously. "He smoked marijuana on campus grounds, and had the worst music taste."

"Okay." Quinn giggles, pulling back, "I admit, you've got a bit of a mean-streak, but that's not _that _bad."

Rachel, ever one to rise up to a challenge, instantly takes offense, "I'm a daring manipulator, Quinn Fabray! My acting skills—" Quinn shrugs her off.

"He would have been fired, anyways. Even McKinnley couldn't keep that nut-job in office." She dismisses. Rachel huffs.

"I sent Sunshine to a crack house."

This makes Quinn's laughter die and Rachel's hand slaps over her mouth muffling her _I wasn't supposed to say that._

There's a long—long—moment of silence between them before Quinn's eyebrows furrow and her mouth finally closes and opens once more. "That...little Asian girl who Mercedes kept saying she wanted to kill off?"

Quinn's not really sure who Sunshine was, she just knows the girl transferred. Hey, Quinn was a little busy during the beginning of the school year—what with, y'know, _dead father _and all—and she didn't bother to go to any of the extra Glee meetings the first two weeks.

Rachel instantly looks ashamed. "I...well...she's Phill—"

"You sent a small little Asian girl to a crack house?" Quinn asks, disbelieving.

Rachel coughs uncomfortably, "I well, she..." She looks down at her nails. "Yes." Quinn tries to push her jaw back up into her head but can't really help it. When Rachel finally meets her eyes again she blinks. "You're...smiling?"

It's probably more than a little deranged that, right now, Quinn doesn't feel disgusted: she just feels _proud_.

"I mean, I know that it's not something to pat you on the back for but..." Quinn shakes her head, not able to hide the smile. Sue Sylvester would be proud. Hell, even Russell Fabray would probably be proud of the gumption Rachel Berry apparently possesses. "I mean..._wow_, Rach, when you go out, you go out."

Rachel shifts uncomfortably. "Stop smiling at me like that, it's a little creepy."

"A _crack _house."

"Yes, well, it was the most convenient location to effectively hinder her wishes of joining the Glee club."

"A _crack_ house."

"It wasn't an _active _crack house." Rachel pauses for a moment. "I think."

"A _crack _house." Quinn still can't hide the amusement from her voice.

"Yes—_yes_, Quinn! A crack house."

"The title is yours." Quinn is smart and knows, _sometimes, _when to admit defeat. Well, okay, maybe it's a skill she's picked up this year, but she still thinks it might be hard to top a crack house. Even sleeping with your boyfriend with his best friend and convincing him the baby is his isn't that bad. It's close, but she doesn't _want _to top it.

It's another ten minutes before Rachel huffs and shoves Quinn's shoulder, once more, "Stop _smiling _at me like that, Quinn. It's utterly disturbing and I already feel bad enough, as is."

"A _crack _house!"

The only noise is a loud smack of a pillow against Quinn's head.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'm just curious: where do you guys see this story going? Where would you like it to go? (I have a very, very clear idea, obviously, but I'm just curious)


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **9/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.

**A/N**: I wrote Rachel's dads before I actually watched the episode and, ever the rebel (really, I'm a rebel, I swear) I switched them. Because I could. So, yes, one father is that short little white man with glasses while the other is tall and black (and with goatee). But? The catch? Hiram is the black one and Leroy is the white one. I know. Throw you for a loop. But they're kind of important to the story and I _like _it this way, so you can all deal with the mental confusion.

* * *

><p>"Rachel, sweetie, have you seen my—oh."<p>

The best way to wake up, Quinn finds, is _not _with two men gaping at you when you're too tired to really remember where you even fell asleep. The blonde has yet to _really _adapt to her new apartment, even, and she always expects to wake up to her childhood home, light streaming through that window just an inch above her head, a dark spot where the crack in the top-right corner sits (she accidentally broke that window when she was twelve with a baseball and a fork; long story). So to wake up not even in the _apartment_ but Rachel Berry's house? That's weird.

To wake up to two guys _staring you down_? That's just _creepy_.

When Quinn opens her eyes to see a large, baffled, and fastly-becoming angry black man, she yelps and falls out of the side of Rachel's bed, clutching at her heart.

"Hiram! What's taking you? Didn't Rachel have the—" Another set of footsteps pats along the floorboards and this voice, in a higher register but somehow still freakishly intimidating, "What are you doing on my daughter's floor?" There's a longer pause before that same, now very angry black man, grumbles.

"What are you doing in my daughter's bed?"

It feels like a nightmare, for some reason, because Quinn is still a little confused. Last thing she remembers was a penguin in a top hat—okay, that was probably a dream—and her eyesight is blurry because she's not sure if her contacts are even _in _her eyes, and...does she smell bacon? She just groans because her hip hit the end table before she unceremoniously body slammedthe floor. She has to work today and she swears, if that daylight has any say in anything, it's too early for her to be awake.

"Dad! Daddy!" Rachel's perky voice finally floods the room and the blonde just tiredly shoves her head further into the blanket in front of her. Crap, it's probably just _tofu _bacon or something—do they make tofu bacon? Quinn groggily thinks that's illegal. "Quinn, what are you doing on my floor?"

Maybe if she just stays here she can go back to sleep.

"Quinn?" One of the male voices asks, recognition tinting his voice.

"Shouldn't you have asked us if she could spend the night?" The other man. At least he doesn't sound angry, anymore. Well, okay, at least he doesn't sound angry at _Quinn._

"Well, I was going to but it was late and it surely would have been a safety precaution for her to drive and you weren't home—"

"Quinn." The second re-states...that one's...Leroy, isn't it? The voice fits with the mental picture she has in her head with the Jewish man that burst into the room after the first and the picture in Rachel's locker. He's the man that Quinn's heard the most about, regardless of Rachel, and she's honestly surprised that he's not more intimidating, from first glance. Or taller.

"I understand, Rachel, but you could have left us a note—" The black father—_Hiram_, that's his name—continues. She makes a mental note to just call him _Hiram_ in her head, from now on, because Rachel would probably be pretty pissed that she mentally calls one the 'Jewish one' and the other one the 'Black one'.

"Of course, I'm sorry. How ridiculously irresponsible—"

"_The _Quinn?" She can feel Leroy's eyes burning a hole into her over the cover. She wishes they had waited ten more minutes before bursting into the room. She's seriously tired. Happy (and a little nervous, really) to meet them, but tired.

"Daddy." Rachel sounds slightly exacerbated and...embarrassed? This makes Quinn pull the cover off of her head, looking up at three faces all turned down towards her. All of them are looking at her now and she awkwardly clears her throat. This is when what Leroy just said hits her—_the _Quinn.

"I...good morning?" She tries, rubbing her head where it hit the floor and this must set Rachel in motion because she rushes forward to help her up.

"We didn't mean to startle you." Leroy assures as he helps, grabbing her left arm as Rachel grabs her right.

"_I'm_ not the one that barged in here like I was Rambo." Hiram mumbles, arms crossed and eyes curious. He's looking at her with a very odd gaze—like someone trying to remember a bad taste—both annoyed and...intrigued.

"I wasn't bursting in here like I was Rambo," He protests.

"Are you alright?" This Rachel inquires of Quinn and the blonde nods and smiles thankfully.

"Thank you." She politely whispers, head a little sore and throat dry.

"More like...Caesar." Leroy continues. Eyes taking in Quinn. "You're welcome." His smile is bright and a little showy and Quinn instantly knows where Rachel gets it from. "So..." He drawls, looking from Quinn to Rachel.

"Oh, right." Rachel seriously sounds _nervous—_it's a tone the blonde's never heard from her friend, before—and she eyes her curiously. "Quinn, these are my parents: Hiram and Leroy." She gestures accordingly and the blonde's a little proud to know she's gotten it right. "Dad, Daddy, this is...Quinn."

There's a moment of silence where they're all awkwardly looking at her and the blonde just smiles, cheeks tucking a little too wide to be authentic because—hey—it's probably dawn or some other crazy hour that the Berry's get up at.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Quinn politely greets, stretching out her hand out of courtesy and years of well-bred upbringing. "Thank you so much for being so gracious and having me. It's truly a lovely home." Her tone is authentic as it gets but she's pretty sure that the left side of her face (the side that hit the floor) is swelling and Rachel is looking at her with this sort of shocked disbelief at her early-morning manners. Hiram and Leroy look a little shocked, as well and Quinn feels nervous, her heart thumping like crazy, and she's not sure why it matters so much that these men like her.

Hiram is the first to step forward, taking Quinn's hand with a tight grip and a knowing smile. "Sorry to startle you, Quinn. We've heard a lot about you." His voice is smooth. Leroy takes her hand next, his grip just as firm, and the blonde instantly knows more about these men from their handshakes than she probably should. Her father taught her about strong handshakes when she was twelve.

"You didn't startle me." She lies. "I needed to get up, anyways." All Quinn can hear, however, are old words. _If a man has a strong handshake, they're a strong worker; this means they're either the best ally or the best competition, either way, be wary. Sometimes_, Russel used to say, _allies are the competition._

Quinn doesn't really think these men are competition, but they _must _be strong workers. Rachel's dark eyes follow hazel as she mindlessly looks them up and down, subconsciously assessing in a way she can't help, in a way that's in her blood. She likes these men without even knowing them, even though she knows they might be a threat to her _some _day, if her fallen father has anything to say about it.

Leroy, Quinn understands, definitely _is _worth all of the griping and praise the late lawyer gave him and spitefully (and childishly) she's a little jealous.

Russell, though, might be a good judge on work, but he was never a good judge on character.

She likes them.

Rachel clears her throat and Quinn blinks, refocusing and letting go of Leroy's hand, though in truth her hesitation only lasted a moment. "I already finished my morning routine and was just making some breakfast. I figured you should sleep since you have work, later." Rachel's tone is as soft as her smile and, for a moment, Quinn is captured by it.

"Thanks, Rach." Her reply is instant and she takes a moment longer to turn towards the two men standing, appraising her. The vision of the figures is still blurry and, with a mental sigh, Quinn realizes she must have taken her contacts out. Before she can make the morning even more hazardous for herself, she quickly leans down to unzip the first pouch on her backpack, grabbing the blue case from the front pocket.

Leroy's watch beeps and he looks down at his wrist, fingers moving over to grip in his husband's elbow. "Well, it was wonderful to meet you, Quinn, but we really must be going. Rachel, do you have your father's—"

"Keys?" Rachel beams and holds them up from where they were clenched in her hand. "I ran up here to give them to you before you could wake up Quinn," She sheepishly looks towards her friend who's now standing beside her, opening the case, "I was obviously a little late." The blonde shakes her head, smile in place.

Hiram grabs them, rolling his eyes, "We'll be home by eight." He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek before Hiram crosses the way and repeats the action on the other cheek. "Ask us next time."

"Yes, Dad." Rachel's reply is as instant as her eye roll.

"It was nice meeting you..." She hesitates for a moment, face scrunching in concentration as she tries to find the least offensive way to process what her mind is telling her. She pushes the frames of her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a tired sigh leaving her lips. She blinks, adjusting.

"Hiram and Leroy." Leroy supplies, both of the men paused in the doorway.

"Nice meeting you, Hiram and Leroy." She offers, smile awake and honestly genuine. Their images are clear, in the doorway.

"You, too, Quinn." The Jewish—Leroy—waves, "Bye, sweetie." Rachel blows a kiss at them before she turns to see Quinn, gasping slightly.

"What?" Quinn asks, a yawn on her lips, realizing Rachel's never seen her in her glasses. "Yeah, I normally wear contacts. I guess I took them out, last night, without thinking about them." Rachel's still looking at her face, this odd look in her eyes, lips slightly parted. The look is too intense for Quinn to process this early in the morning and it makes her abdomen tighten and her lips purse and her neck itches just the slightest. Rachel's face is the first clear thing she's seen this morning and the idea makes her throat dry in a way that is unexplainable "What?" She pushes.

"Nothing." Rachel mumbles, hand hesitating before she brushes a stray strand of hair out of Quinn's face, tucking it behind her ear. "Just...nothing."

A throat being cleared startles Quinn for the second time this day and Rachel leaps back like she's done something wrong; the blonde suddenly wants a cup of coffee. There's something amazingly important in this look that is given to her on both sides and she's too tired—too scared—to analyze it, so she doesn't.

"Before I forget, we have a game night every Monday." Hiram is tall and his eyes are dark, just like Rachel's. "We'd love if you'd come." Quinn turns to Rachel, who smiles and looks hopeful, before she turns back to Hiram and nods.

He hesitates, for a moment, stepping forward, eyes still appraising her, "I'm sorry," He shakes his head, finger pinching the edge of his eyebrow in what Quinn can only assume is habit, "You just look so familiar." He purses his lips.

She blinks, a little, maybe they went to one of her and her father's birthday dinners, or something, or maybe (more reasonably) one of their shows, "I'm in your daughter's Glee—"

"No, that's not it." He has that tone of instant displacement, like he knows it, he just can't place it. Like a familiar song you've just forgotten, or _that one _actor or actress you just can't remember their name or what they were in, two years ago.

When he's just staring at her awkwardly for a couple of seconds, Quinn shifts on her feet and Rachel steps forward and shoos her father out of the room before she turns around and looks at the blonde herself, eyes fixed on glasses.

"Okay, if you're gonna start looking at me all weird, too, I'm just going to leave." She tiredly threatens and Rachel just flushes and looks down before smiling bashfully.

The rest of the morning is pretty uneventful—it's _not _real bacon, but Quinn tries to eat it anyways because Rachel was nice enough to make it—and when they pull into the parking lot, together, all of McKinnley looks at them like they've grown an extra head (then again, there's probably a rumor about _that, _too).

Rachel tangles her arm with Quinn's as they walk through the halls and beams. "They like you." She notes for the fifteenth time since they've gotten here and hazel eyes try to stay un-annoyed. This is apparently an achievement to her best friend and Quinn doesn't want to point out that it's not like they've had a lot of people to _dislike _before. Besides, Quinn has a way with wrapping people (especially parents) around her finger; she doesn't know _how_, exactly, she just does. Well, okay, except for that whole Finn's mom thing but it was kind of hard to make her like Quinn after the...baby incident.

"So you _are _coming to game night, right?" Rachel hesitantly asks during lunch and Quinn nods. The excited way the brunette leaps up and dances a little, hugging her gratefully, causes a decision to be made.

As long as she's wanted, Quinn can swing not working Monday nights.

After a pretty _crazy _game of Scrabble where Quinn manages to actually beat Rachel, a surprising amount of laughs passed between them, Hiram and Leroy, indeed, becoming formidable allies, and an annoyed but beautifully gratified Rachel Berry later, Quinn Fabray is invited to the next game night, starting a tradition she's surprised to find herself looking forward to.

–

It's not an unusual sight to see Judy Fabray sleeping on the small kitchen table. She used to fall asleep on their dining room table all the time, a glass by her fingers and a book folded as her pillow—murder mystery, usually, because her mother loves a good mystery—and she never bothered her, then, just kept walking. It's different, somehow, though, when the only mystery pillowing her slumber is paperwork for Quinn's aid information and the glass is full of grape juice.

She watches her, for a second, peaceful and quiet, before she gently places a hand on her shoulder and murmurs into her ear.

The moment their eyes meet might be the blurriest for her mother's vision, but it's the clearest Quinn's ever seen her, and she smiles.

–

The first time Rachel tells Quinn that she loves her, it's when they're leaving school. It's simple, really.

_Bye, Quinn! Love you!_

She says it with such a genuine, wide smile, and such exuberance that Quinn, for a second, doesn't actually _realize _what Rachel's said until she's already gone and the blonde's face drops. Her best friend's always been quick and loose (she assumes, at least, if watching the course of her dating Finn is enough) with saying the words, throwing them out there to anyone who might say them back. It's not a harsh thing, really, it's just an observation.

It's probably because Hiram and Leroy, no matter what, make sure that their daughter knows they love her. They're rarely there (and, seriously, that _sucks, _really) but if they don't tell her _I love you _before they leave for work and before she goes to bed, they leave sticky notes that display it proudly.

As opposed to Quinn well...however _sad _it probably sounds, can't remember the last time she said that to the majority of her family members. Fabrays didn't hang up the phone with proclamations, just statements, and the idea of being so easily open-lipped about such a concept that baffles her is, well, more than a little unnerving.

The last person Quinn told she loved was her...was...

The last time Quinn said _I love you _it was in a hospital room and she wasn't sure the person she was telling it to could even hear it because her voice was so raspy and the beeping of the machines were so loud and, God, she didn't even understand _English_, yet, so, really...but she'd never meant it more. She'd never prayed someone could understand that she loved them so much and carry it with them wherever they went.

She's not sure if she's loved anyone else, her whole life, and that might sound sad, but it's factual.

It's unfortunate that Rachel seems to make a point of saying it, now that she's started, and it doesn't really help that the idea doesn't really make Quinn feel all that _special _because she practically screams it at Finn every time she sees him in the hall. The taller teenager _can't_—she refuses to imply a concept that she doesn't even really understand—and it's weird, really, the way she starts to notice how the way Rachel's saying it starts to change.

At first it's just casual, just a brief flit of mind.

But one night, when she's barely asleep and Rachel's chin is on her shoulder, she sounds so exhausted and practically asleep and it's almost a murmur—like it's the last thing that she wants to say that's important while she's _here—_like it's a necessary statement that leaves of it's own accord, so natural she's breathing it.

_I love you._

Quinn's eyes slip open and her hands tighten on Rachel's fingers and her throat catches for barely a moment. It's a little unnerving to think that Rachel might want her to say it back but she _knows _she doesn't expect it from her.

It's downright _petrifying_, though, that Quinn actually wishes with everything that she is that she could just _say it back,_ anyways.

–

She's normally so fluid—so perfect—precision and concise calculation guiding her movements, so it's more surprising that she's just disappointingly expectant when she falls, not horrified. The room is dark, though, and the glaring contrast between the spotlight and the pitch black of the world around her distracts her and she can't remember—can't _remember—_but she _knows_, too.

The floor is probably cutting against her knees, but Quinn just sinks into its retribution. She hears them—his biting voice and can feel hit breath and spit against her neck—but her eyes are closed; always closed.

"Get up." It's not harsh but pleading, begging. So soft and welcoming that, for a moment, she wants to lose herself in it like a tangled nightmare of hopes and dreams that her brain cannot comprehend as much as she can imagine unwrapping her points. "You must." The friend is calm but desperation obviously licks at her heels. That hand is there, at her shoulder, lingering and _curling_, like maybe it wishes to grasp her as much as she wishes to grasp it. "Get up and let go."

She cannot. She never can.

Her knees bend and she pulls up and her head swings when her breath swells, expelling, and her fingers slip and glide along her stomach, a gaping hole of what it was.

It is not consolation, this time, but belief—belief in something Quinn cannot wrap her mind around believing.

She can feel those eyes—both pairs—and she dances. She keeps dancing. Liberation, she idly reminds herself, is in perfection.

Her alarm clock doesn't wake her. The sound of her knees hitting the stage, again, do, and the disappointment in brown eyes makes her take the hottest shower she has in years.

–

When Quinn asks Rachel, one day, timid and nervous and worried, why Finn doesn't go to game nights or go to her recitals or help her practice or sit at her with lunch (or Glee) or...does, well, anything with her, really, the look in Rachel's eyes is too sad for Quinn to push it. At least they've obviously gotten past the point where they both think they're just trying to steal him, or something.

"He's not..._we're _not..." She just tucks back a strand of hair behind her ear, chews her lip, and shrugs. She lets out a breath of heavy air through her nostrils and looks up into hazel eyes through thick eyelashes, guilty and...sad. "He's not the person to do those things with." The sentence makes Rachel sound shy and Quinn scoots a little closer before she hesitates and leans back, fingers clenching on the hard, cold wood of the theatre floor. "My dads make him nervous and, while not as stupid as he lets on, he is horrible at song selection or giving direction in any form of logical sense." She rushes in to explain and Quinn just nods, looking off into the chairs.

"You don't have to explain, or anything." The blonde tries to appease, eyes still focused on the sea of empty spots before them. "I was just curious." She's more than curious, but she's also more than understanding—she knows; she's always known. Quinn is many things, but stupid is not one of them.

Rachel nods.

There's a long moment of silence between them before Quinn quietly stretches her hand between them and rests it easily on top of the nervous girl's hand, a comfort she knows she can easily bestow from her digits. Dark eyes startle and take in her profile but Quinn just stares ahead.

Rachel looks at Quinn like she wants to know what she sees—like she wants to _understand—_but she doesn't ask about it...she simply stares at her before turning out to look into the dark with her.

Rachel doesn't know what Quinn sees—probably never will—when she looks forward. Rachel doesn't know what Quinn sees when she looks back...but Rachel's hand twists around and takes Quinn's anyways, and that is, perhaps, the boldest thing.

Maybe Rachel loves Finn, but Quinn doesn't. She never has. Quinn...

Quinn's many things, but stupid isn't one of them. She's known. She's _always _known...

But this is the first time, she'll realize years later, that she admits it.

"I want you to be happy." Quinn finally admits, voice whispering like rain against a piece of silk.

"I know." Rachel replies.

Their fingers clasped and eyes set, a quiet understanding full of worry and guilt, Rachel and Quinn stare into a black auditorium, together, soft smiles on both of their faces.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **10/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N**: Totally meant to put this up yesterday, but ME3 came out. Sorry. My life has gone into a singularity (those who have played will get my joke and pat me on the back for being such a creative little femShep).

* * *

><p>It's nearing five months—and almost four months into the year full of quiet, comforting lunches with Rachel Berry and (more often than not) six nights a week at a smokey bar—before Puck lands himself in Juvie and Sam lands himself in a classroom, cornering the ex-cheerleader like he has business to. She thinks he's kind of amusing in a dorky sort of way, but Quinn Fabray has no want, rhyme, or reason to date anyone, again. Especially not another football player—not after Finn and Puck, who she is <em>still <em>mad at for winding himself in juvie and, y'know, that whole pregnancy thing—and she tenses when he leans down to kiss her.

He'd already cracked a joke about her being a coke head—in what he probably assumed was an endearing manner—in the bathroom when she helped him clean up after a very blinding slushie facial and, while he was probably just nervous, it still had pissed her off. Regardless, his tendency to make nerdy references reminded her of _Puck_ and she found herself missing him so much—_hating _him, so much—that she agreed to meet Sam later.

She's actually pretty sure, right now, that she might _really _try that whole Celibacy thing. She storms away, her hands clenching—fingernails biting at her palms and her teeth biting at her tongue—she's even thrown open the door before she swings around and glares at Sam so hard she's sure _something's _frozen off. "Wait a second, Kurt told me yesterday you were singing the duet with _him_."

Since the night at the hospital, Kurt's apparently found her company more tolerable—like they have something in common—and Quinn doesn't hesitate, anymore, to smile at him in the hallways. Their conversations aren't as deep as what lead to their unlikely friendship—it's mostly just about shoes and dresses and on occasion he rants about some random celebrities' abs—but they're still welcomed. In fact, nowadays Quinn feels more welcomed walking down the halls of McKinnley High than she did when she was Head Cheerleader.

It's kind of funny considering the fact that everyone thinks she's on hardcore drugs.

So the fact that Sam might have dropped his agreement with Kurt because he's gay prickles the edges of Quinn's toes for more than one reason. Sam's just blinking at her with wide eyes, lips parted, and then she discovers the _real _reason why.

Finn.

Now, normally Finn being an absolute pain in Quinn's ass is nothing new—ex-boyfriends are good at that—and if it was _just _this, maybe Quinn wouldn't do anything irrational. But...it's not _just _this.

Santana, unfortunately, tells her _everything—_mostly because the other girl finds it hilarious when her friend blushes, but Quinn had discovered that Santana tended to use her as her come-to Catholic priest for confession. Every week, actually, Santana crosses her fingers over her chest in a holy trinity, bows her head slightly to Quinn as they sit on the risers above the football field, and admits her dirtiest, darkest secrets...usually all things about sex that Quinn really, _really _doesn't want to hear. Sometimes Santana actually tells her legitimate stuff—like that one time she killed Brittany's turtle (which, yeah, is a little sad when _that's _one of the legitimate sins)—and, honestly, the ex-cheerleader has _no _idea why the Latina is dead set on the idea of their Catholic little pow-wows, but she is.

Quinn even tried telling her that she wasn't Catholic, once, but Santana just glared at her and told her to shut up before she went into more detail about that last week's tryst with Brian behind the bleachers. Quinn never mentioned it, again, after that, and only tended to open her mouth when utterly necessary. She's not even sure why she shows up—either Quinn _or _Santana—but they both do and now it's more habit and necessity than anything else.

Today was confessional and, being so, when Quinn was asked to meet her cheerleading friend before school, Santana admitted two things to her that she never knew. Two legitimate things.

The first was masked with disgust—Brittany, apparently, was quote: "Falling hard for me, Q. I gots to keep it reals." but whenever Quinn heard Santana try to push Brittany away, she always just sat back and waited for them to get it together. She knew this—knew this dance between them well—but still found it enlightening; what she didn't know was that Santana was _fighting_ Brittany on it. That wasn't the unnerving one. They'd figure their crap out, eventually. Santana was gayer than a statue of a Judy Garland drag queen wrapped in a rainbow flag on a gay pride parade on Mardi Gras. One day, she'd eventually embrace it, Quinn was sure.

The second was blunt and undignified in the manner most of Santana's confessions were and held a note of hesitancy that wouldn't have been there if she told her right after it happened. It had happened during a break in the relationship, Santana had promised, and Quinn wasn't mad at her friend—she _understood _the Head Cheerio in a rather odd way that most didn't—but she found herself _hating _one Finn Hudson.

"I slept with Finn." Was Santana's awkward confession, this morning. Quinn didn't ask why Santana thought she would care—and didn't pretend like she didn't—and she didn't ask why she waited until _today, _of all days,to tell her. Maybe it was the thing with Brittany that did it, Quinn didn't know, but either way, Santana just confessed to sleeping with the blonde's best friend's boyfriend when they were on a momentary break...and now he's _lying _about it.

The entire day, Quinn's stewed in this knowledge. Spanish curses were sent in a bumbling football jock's way, across the room (bored eyes staring at the blank classroom walls, probably thinking about nachos) and she tried to tell herself he would tell Rachel. She tried denial, maybe—they were on a _break_ (and, really, Rachel being named after _Rachel _from _Friends_, it is a little ironic). In the hallway, she tried earnestly to smile at Rachel while she babbled on but when Finn rounded the corner and Rachel looked so _happy _to see him she just felt sick and kind of stumbled across the hallway. Denial didn't work. In Math, calculations turned into how it would be so nice to divide Finn out of the equation because Rachel would never _have _to find out. Anger was reasonable but it didn't pass—it stayed. In Chemistry, Rachel looked so hurt that Quinn didn't sit next to her, but Quinn thought that Rachel and Finn didn't really have very good chemistry, anyways, but Rachel really, really likes the idiot.

The more she stewed in it, the more she knew she would feel obligated to _tell _her best friend. She doesn't want to tell Rachel—wishes she didn't even _know—_and she wonders how much it would cost to buy a ticket on the Greyhound to Washington. Lauren _so _owes her; she could stay on her couch. Rachel doesn't know; Rachel shouldn't know. At lunch, that's all she could think—she doesn't know, she doesn't _know_, Oh, it's going to kill her and she doesn't even _know—_and by her last period, Quinn actually broke her pencil. (Like Finn, she silently growled in bitter and depressing distaste, will break Rachel's heart).

Quinn isn't used to this—isn't used to actually _caring _about the drama in her friend's lives just because _you _care—and this day's already almost killed her.

The more she thought about it—the way Rachel's eyes would first slant with disbelief and then instantly break into tears, as soon as she found out; the way Finn just might not _tell _her—the more Quinn couldn't help but feel nauseous.

All day it's been like this and it's been _infuriating _because Quinn wishes she just never knew because _Rachel _doesn't know. Rachel. Her best friend—her only _real _friend—doesn't know. The girl who gave her whole heart to an idiot who betrayed her and is one of the few people that Quinn knows that still believes that romance can exist without lying and cheating and stealing (despite her previous efforts to do just that to win Finn from Quinn). Rachel thinks Finn's perfect, if a little stupid, and entirely faithful and _honest_.

Rachel. The girl who loves scary movies and Scooby Doo and sings horrible pop songs in the shower (too well). The girl who rushed after Quinn at her father's funeral and drinks too many glasses of water, at night, because her fathers don't understand that she needs them and she's too headstrong to tell them. The girl who sends her text messages every morning and _cares _that she works in a strip bar and has the most genuine _laugh _that Quinn's ever heard. The girl that Quinn...

The girl that Quinn thinks, out of everyone she's _ever _known, deserves for her _first time_ to be everything she hoped it would.

This whole day, Quinn's thoughts have been on over-drive and when she hears the reason that Kurt feels so un-welcomed and Sam feels so awkward, she blanches.

Finn.

She's sick of liars; She's sick of homophobic pricks; She's sick of people feeling unwelcome and hated for just being born; She's sick enough of herself.

Kurt doesn't deserve this—he's a _good _friend—and Rachel does _not _deserve this.

This time she effectively manages to storm out of the door...and literally runs into one Rachel Berry, friend-extraordinaire.

"Please tell me you're singing the duet with Sam." Rachel groans as Quinn helps her pick herself up off the floor, not giving her enough of a chance to apologize. An elegant eyebrow arches in a familiar motion.

"You were waiting outside this whole entire time?" Quinn tries to walk past her, hoping to hide the livid tone of her voice.

"Of course I was!" Rachel intones like this is the most natural thing to do in the world. She follows after squeaking Chuck Taylors, indignant, her voice hushed and adamant. "You need to raise his confidence, Quinn. He's already been slushied today and then Kurt didn't want to be his partner! I have strong suspicions that _your _good looks are the only thing keeping him on this—where are you _going_?"

Quinn whips around and the brunette runs into her chest, again, but luckily doesn't stumble this time. She's mad.

She hasn't been mad in a long time.

All she can remember is flashes. Kurt's eyes, swimming before her, in front of his father; countless conversations about purses and dresses swing by; She thinks of Santana, last weekend, ditching her for Brittany; She thinks of her lunches with Rachel and how _hurt _she'll be when she finds out; she thinks of that _stupid _card tacked on her mirror and thinks she's sort of failed a big way in that whole 'protecting' thing.

The brunette squeaks when Quinn suddenly slams her hand against the locker closest to her.

Rachel's rant, of course, has been lost on her, and she wonders if the brunette is startled by the fury she sees in her eyes.

"Where I'm going is none of you _or _your homophobic boyfriend's business!" She growls, twisting around and heading towards the locker rooms. A small hand is twisting her back around before she can think.

"I obviously must have heard you incorrectly, Quinn Fabray, because you did not just imply that my boyfriend would be homophobic against my knowledge! My Two Gay Fathers," Quinn always assumes when Rachel says this it comes naturally capitalized, "would certainly detect my future-betrothed's malevolent attitude towards their alternative lifestyle!" Rachel's death glare is worthy, but Quinn is inexplicably angry, right now, and she doesn't notice. "And, yes, where you are going is very much my business, as you are my friend and I have _never _seen you this irate, before. If Finn is the cause of this—"

"You know, you kind of forget that I used to date him too, sometimes." Quinn spits, hands on her hips and fingertips tapping restlessly against the belt of her yellow dress. Rachel blinks at the vehemency in the blonde's voice. "I know _you're _obviously not homophobic, Rachel, but sometimes you have to stop putting other people on pedestals. And that giant _prick _is too big to stand on one, anyways! It shoves his head so far up his _ass _that—"

Maybe it's the use of actual kind-of-curse-words that makes Rachel jump to Finn's behest.

"Quinn, if you could kindly describe the things my boyfriend did before you start unnecessarily accusing him of things?" Rachel's tone sounds dangerous, eyes dark, and Quinn is about to punch another locker when Finn, himself, rounds the corner, and Quinn decides there's something better she can do.

She just walks up and punches Finn, instead.

It's the first violent thing she's done in her whole entire life because, deep down in her stomach, she's always been scared to _death _of becoming Russell Fabray, and she hates it when a part of her _breathes it in_.

But the truth of the matter is, all Quinn can think is that somewhere, miles away, Puck is being punched in the face by some guy bigger than him the same time Shelby Corcoran is holding their little baby daughter. Kurt is probably crying, at home, his face buried in his nearly-dead father's shoulder. Rachel, behind her, doesn't even _know, _and this boy, in front of her, used the only real best friend she's ever had in her entire life and has been lying to her this entire time.

Quinn's mad—she's _pissed—_and she has the urge booming in her chest to protect something that isn't even hers in the first place.

The small girl packs a surprisingly good punch and has really, really decent aim; no one, however, has told her how much it really kind of _hurts _to punch Finn in his huge, stupid face.

"Oh, God, _oww_, son of a..." Good Christian habit prohibits her from continuing, so, instead, random words find their way out of her mouth. "Pancake...shuffle...monkey..._pain_—"

"QUINN!" Rachel's shrieking voice meets her ears at the same time Sam's startled, confused, and somewhat amused voice, pipes up, "_Quinn_?"

It seems fate has a way of making conversations even more awkward, for the blonde, because if it weren't enough, half of the reason she's just punched Finn walks around the corner with his perky falsetto voice, dazzled eyes instantly turning mortified at the sight in front of him.

"Quinn? Rachel? Fi—did someone just punch you?"

It's probably kind of obvious what's happened because Quinn is huddled against the lockers saying words that sound like curse words but aren't _really_, Sam fawning over her fist, and Rachel's yelling at her best friend as she examines her stupid, homophobic boyfriend's face.

"Geez, Fabray, jealous type, much?" Of course Santana would even walk around the hall, too, right after Kurt and Mercedes.

Quinn ignores all of it and forces herself up, pushing Rachel away from Finn (a rather difficult task) and forces herself to stand nine feet tall.

"What the hell, Quinn?" Finn growls, hand holding an eye that will surely bruise.

"I can't believe you!" Quinn shouts and Santana, at this, must realize half of what's going on; Sam, also, realizes the other half. It's funny, really, how her two kind-of-friends still, only knowing half, know more of the story than her best friend does.

"Uh oh." Santana and Sam mumble at the same time—their eyes meet.

They both rush to pull her back.

"He's not worth it!" Sam tries, her left arm in his grasp.

"Don't do this—not here, Q." Santana tries from Quinn's side— right where she's always been, when it comes to things like this—her hands forceful but understanding.

"You effing homophobic, lying, _dick_!" She screams, and Santana and Sam physically pull her back a step.

Quinn thinks that Rachel and Kurt are both confused as _hell_, trying to pull a usually passive (aggressive) Quinn off of an equally confused but _pissed _Finn Hudson. Although, it appears, Finn's eyes register with understanding at these words, and he pulls back, eyes instantly flitting between Kurt and Rachel before they settle back on hazel. His eyes are pleading. It's funny how quickly guilt pushes one to understanding. It just annoys Quinn further.

"Look, Quinn, they're right. Let's not do this here—"

"You just don't want to have to own up to your own mistakes!"

"Right, like you know how to own up to _yours_!" This, of course, doesn't help, but Finn's anger subsides, for a moment, as he hurriedly whispers, "Look, I don't want to _hurt _anyone."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have—" She's close to lashing out, again, her fingernails gripping against her skin like a snake on a rat's back. She can feel Rachel's disapproving gaze on her and it makes her feel furious and hated.

"Don't be like your father, Q." Santana whispers into Quinn's ear, quiet but not only they can hear. Quinn tries to ignore Rachel's burning, surprised gaze on her when she hears, too. Santana whispers it, anyways, appealingly, voice serious but gentle, "Violence bad, right? That's what you're always telling me." Shame is a familiar feeling in her chest and she tries not to notice the way Rachel's hand slacks against Finn's wrist as she looks at Quinn, trying to find truth in a situation that makes no sense. "You're not your father."

That's the problem when someone knows you so well, isn't it?

At this, Quinn instantly slacks in the brunette's arms, all of the fight leaving her like a quick breath of air, fear twisting in her gut as her eyes whip to Santana's. She's always so careful—always tries to let nothing _get _to her, like this—and she gulps down tears as she ducks her head. She looks at her bruised hand and looks from Sam to Santana to Kurt to Finn, eye still clutched, gaze finally settling on Rachel's frightened eyes.

She backs up, her hands shaking slightly. She's still mad—so mad—but Santana's right. She's not her father. He has no sway over her—not anymore—and she has a _choice. _She sighs, arms clasping roughly around her chest. Sam's hand tightens on her shoulder the same time Santana's does and Quinn idly thinks that maybe she's misjudged the blonde boy next to her—maybe he's not so bad. She ignores Rachel's eyes.

She shouldn't have done this here, not in front of her. She _should _have done it in front of Kurt, but she shouldn't have done it in front of Rachel. Sometimes protecting people causes for the silent hero.

She doesn't want anyone in the hall to hear them because having a boyfriend who is a _dick _is hard enough and an almost-half-brother who hates who you _are _is hard enough, too, so she eyes Finn and leans dangerously close and whispers into his ear.

"Watch your back, Hudson." She might not punch him, again, but she'll sure as hell make his life _hell_.

Without another word, Quinn walks away, a livid Finn Hudson, a shaken Rachel Berry, and an almost _proud _Kurt Hummel in her wake as Sam and Santana follow her.

Quinn assumes Mercedes, however, is just confused as _hell_ as to why her girl just beat the shit out of Finn Hudson.

–

"That was a damn mean right hook, Fabray." Santana says it like a proud mother says to their daughter and Quinn shakes her head.

"I shouldn't have punched him." Quinn whispers, feet weakly dangling off of the edge of the stage as the Head Cheerio wraps gauze around her bruised fingers.

"From what Santana just told me, I think you're a good friend." Sam quietly cheers, his eyes dancing. Santana quickly filled him in in about 3 seconds when they first walked into the auditorium, regardless of who might be listening. Quinn nearly had a heart attack until she verified that no one was in listening distance. That would be the _worst _way for Rachel to find out. Sam, simultaneously, told Santana what he'd told Quinn in the classroom. "I'd be lucky to have you in my corner." He knocks her shoulder and the female blonde can't help but smile shyly back at him, head shaking through laughter.

"You don't even know me."

"I know not to get on your _bad _side." He jokes and Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Both sides are Quinn's bad side." Santana puts her two cents in and the blonde lightly hits her shoulder. "Seriously though, Q. That was..." She looks a little amused. "Why, though? Seriously, what set you off?"

"He's a homophobic prick." Quinn mumbles, eyes focused on the gauze on her hand.

"By that logic, you'd punch every preacher you've ever had..._and _every member of this school."

"Hey, I'm not homophobic." Sam protests.

"Suzie Q, protector of the gays, here, obviously isn't, either." Santana quips and Quinn leans forward, stilling her friend's hand as she wraps it with gauze. She purses her lips for a moment, before she turns over and looks her new friend over.

"I'll sing the duet with you, Sam." She decides and he looks happy, but rightfully curious. "But you can't kiss me. I'm done with football playing boyfriends...no offense."

"None taken." He laughs a little and smiles widely. This catches the other girl's eye.

"You have the hugest mouth I've ever seen." Santana says in awe, her eye twitching slightly. Quinn nudges her. "No, seriously, it's like you've got a fish mouth."

"Santana." Quinn warns.

"Trouty mouth." Santana seems a little entranced.

"Santana!"

"Oh shush, preggo." Santana off-handedly dismisses as she finally finishes wrapping her friend's hand. "It's not like you're gonna punch _me_. You love me too much."

Quinn tries not to smile, but a small one breaks through, "Do not."

"You do, too, you big giant gay-bo."

"I'm not—"

"You want in my pants."

"I _do not—_"

"Are any of you going to inform me as to _why _my giant boyfriend was just man-handled by my best friend in the hallway, or am I going to have to interrogate every single person in this entire school to discover why this event just occurred?" Rachel's voice sounds absolutely _livid_ and all three heads laughing on the edge of the stage turn slowly to see her standing at the door, hands on her hips, one eye brow raised.

The laughter is instantly silenced.

Quinn gulps. Sam scrambles to a stand and Santana slowly starts to slink away.

"Sam!" Quinn's eyes are wide with something close to fear but Sam just shrugs and backs away. She doesn't expect _Santana _to stick around because, well, if Rachel somehow finds out what's happened with her boyfriend, Santana might be the next person punched.

Sam just mouths that he'd like to stay _alive _his first month of school and Quinn just sighs and hangs her head, groaning. She kind of hates high school.

"Explain." Rachel says unflinchingly as she finally stands in front of Quinn on the floor of the orchestra pit. Naturally smaller than Quinn, this height difference makes the blonde feel like she's looking at her from the top of a skyscraper. Rachel _still _looks pretty intimidating.

"I'm on my period." Is Quinn's instant reply. It would be good enough to fly in her baby-gate days, her voice hollow and monotone, but Rachel's sort of her best friend, now, and arches one eyebrow. "Why don't you ask _him_?" Quinn growls because she's getting tired of Rachel looking at her like she's the worst friend on the planet when she actually just socked a football player—a quarterback, too, whose head was hard enough to break her hand—in half her honor.

"I did." Rachel says like Quinn's a small child. She starts to walk up the steps to reach the stage. "He finally broke down and woefully explained that he had been the person to homophobically belittle Kurt to Sam and that, somehow, you must have gotten wind of it and gotten suddenly protective due to your recent bonding with him." Rachel is now standing over Quinn and she tries to look away from her intense gaze, eyes going down to her bandage.

"That's why I punched him." Quinn says, honestly, because that _is _part of why she punched him.

"That's not the _only _reason why you punched him." Rachel says simply, hands still on her hips, posture slightly bent over like she's trying to intimidate her friend. "I _know _you, Quinn Fabray. You don't just _punch _people. My deductive reasoning has lead me to believe that Sam told you this in the classroom and this, perhaps, is what set you _off _to punch him." Finally, some hesitance enters her voice. "Perhaps this is even part of why you punched him but...I think there is more to this, Quinn. I think there's something _everyone_'s not telling me." Maybe Rachel really _is _a little psychic because how the hell else would she have figured that out?

Maybe it was the fact that Quinn couldn't look at her all day without looking guilty.

And maybe it was also the curses she sent towards Finn in Spanish during class.

Quinn sighs. "You should really ask _him_, Rachel. Sometimes you should actually find out things from your significant other." It's an unintentional dig at past events that don't need to be dragged up.

"I _apologized _for that." Rachel's beyond annoyed, now, and Quinn sighs.

"I didn't mean—" She's tired, already, and she has to leave to go to work in ten minutes and she has _no _idea how she's going to carry heavy trays with a bruised hand. She stands up, very, very ready for this conversation to be over. "I have to go to work."

"_No_." Rachel's voice is adamant but _hurt_ and Quinn finally looks into her eyes. "I asked him and now I'm asking _you_." Quinn hears the trust in her voice and tries not to lean into it. "You're my best friend, Quinn." The small girl's tough-guy persona drops, her shoulders slumping, her dark eyes endless as she sits down and gently runs her hand over the blonde's bandaged hand. She doesn't pull it away. "Please."

"Don't make me be the one to tell you, Rach." Quinn quietly begs, feet kicking once against the edge of the stage. She really does have to leave for work soon and if she's late she's not sure she can take the pay-dock for the night.

"_Please_." Rachel pleads, fingers moving up to brush cascading waves of blonde out of Quinn's face. The blonde sighs and looks up into Rachel's eyes.

She doesn't want to be the one to hurt her. Quinn's gotten too used to making those eyes happy and dance—she doesn't want to put pain and fear and _hurt _in them, again. She doesn't want to be the cause of that.

Quinn hates that, even though she's tried to generally live a drama-free (read: boyfriend-free) existence, this year, she still manages to break people's hearts.

"Santana told me this morning." Quinn finally admits and Rachel reflexively closes her eyes like she _knows _and distaste swirls in the ex-cheerleader's mouth. It's better, she thinks, to rip off the band-aid than to pull all of the hair out. "Finn slept with her when he broke up with you."

Rachel's hand flies up to her mouth and the tears are instant.

A year ago, Rachel would have stood up and rushed out of the auditorium, sobbing by herself, and Quinn would have let her go.

This time, Quinn catches her wrist before she can run, gently pulling her head into the crook of her neck and holding on for dear life, whispering things that don't make sense into her ear as they both shake from the weight of Rachel's heartbreak.

Quinn figures she can claim her car broke down on the way to work; this is more important.

–

A week later, Quinn sings a duet with Sam with a happy smile and Rachel sings with Kurt. Finn, newly single and staring after Rachel like he did nothing wrong, never has a chance to enter for a free dinner at Breadstix.

Quinn's surprised when they win, eyebrows furrowing, because she knows for a fact that both she and Sam voted for Kurt and Rachel, but it appears both Kurt, Rachel, and, surprisingly, Santana—who claims that Quinn owes her a dinner at Breadstix, anyways (because normally people had to pay for Santana to be a candy striper)—vote for them.

They begrudgingly go—Santana tags along because, again, Quinn apparently owes her a free dinner, too—bringing Brittany and sitting at the table behind them. The blonde makes Kurt and Rachel come, too, and they silently agree, both of them a little tired around the edge of the eyes. Sam admits to her that he's a bottle blonde and Quinn admits to Sam that she thinks they'd make good friends and, if he decides one day that he's gay, she'll be his gay-beard (because, really, she's not going to tell him _she's _a bottle blonde. They've only known each other for, like, two weeks).

She's a little annoyed that he says it right back, this odd look in his eye.

Kurt and Rachel join them halfway through the meal, and Quinn's head lightly slips onto the brunette's shoulder once she situates herself.

"So, are you two lovebirds making a connection?" Kurt jokes, eyes dancing between the two blondes and Rachel's eyes slip off somewhere to the side. Quinn slides her hand down to Rachel's knee and squeezes without thinking about it, ignoring the way brown eyes settle on her face and her mouth opens like she wants to say something but isn't sure _what_.

"I think Quinn and I are off to a beautiful future relationship. I need to stop shaving first, though." Sam's eyes dance between Rachel and Quinn and the blonde glares and throws a bread stick at him. This finally seems to get Rachel's attention.

"Quinn! What did I tell you about wasting bread sticks. Honestly, do you listen to anything I say?" She's pouting, but there's this odd sort of hesitation in the way she looks at Quinn that wasn't there, before.

Rachel's pout turns when three people around the table instantly say: "No."

"Sam, you're catching on quick!" Kurt praises, winking at Rachel, and the small girl rolls her eyes and leans further into Quinn like a girl rolls into a coat in the cold. Quinn quirks an eyebrow but adjusts for her, knowing her friend is a little clingy and especially frail, right now. Despite how much of a jerk Quinn thinks Finn is, right now, she imagines it doesn't hurt any less to be in Rachel's situation because of it.

The rest of the dinner is spent laughing and talking about singing and Glee and how Sam will be a useful asset. Quinn's not really all that surprised to find that she grows a fond sort of affection towards the tall blonde and is happy that Rachel and Kurt readily accept him.

When the check comes, Quinn and Sam excuse themselves to the restroom and laugh, together, as they use the free tickets on the two still at the table before they pay separately for their own (and for Santana's). It's a struggle to get them to leave the restaurant because, while Kurt blushes and accepts, Rachel is near _impossible _and the blonde remembers why they silently murmur that she's the momma diva out of all of the singers in Glee.

"I'm mad at you, Quinn Fabray!" Rachel's headstrong as they finally get her outside. Quinn just laughs and waves Sam and Kurt off with little worry, both of them hugging her and wishing her luck with small smiles. Santana's inside and has ignored all of them for the whole meal, so Quinn doesn't bother with even saying good-bye to her. Either way, the head cheerleader—who _totally _isn't into Brittany, she swears—is looking at the somewhat-ditzy blonde across from her at the table like she's wanting to re-enact that disgustingly cute scene from _Lady and the Tramp._ "I'm not going home with you, now. Not after you sneakily paid for my meal like...like...like a meal-thief!"

"I wish I had a thief who walked into my house and bought me dinner." Quinn hums, eyes dancing as she opens the passenger door for her car and points inside, telling Rachel to get in. "I can see why it's not a very lucrative profession. Little payback _and _little gratitude."

"Oh, hush. You should have told me—"

"Then you wouldn't have let me pay for you." Quinn cuts her off, leaving the door open and getting into the driver's side.

"No, I wouldn't have, because you won the competition fair and square!"

"Whatever. If you get in the car I'll let you play whatever you want." Quinn finally offers an olive branch, regardless of the fact that the brunette should be thanking _her. _Rachel looks _very _tempted at this, thinks it over for a moment, and then leaps into the car, her hands instantly pulling her iPod out of her purse and plugging it into Quinn's sound system.

They've pulled up to Quinn's apartment and just put it in park when the blonde bristles because she feels a hand brush against the still-visible bruises on the delicate flesh of her knuckles. She turns to see Rachel almost reverently gazing down at the digits like a piece of sheet music, like the lines of her bruises will tell the other girl her life's story in a language Quinn's never learned to decipher, but Rachel knows fluidly. She brings Quinn's hand closer to her face, reading it. It's an odd change because, despite how infuriated Rachel claimed to be, she's been happily singing all the way home and it had warmed the blonde's heart because she hadn't seen her friend sing with such gusto for what feels like forever.

Quinn thinks Finn sucks for leaving Rachel so lifeless the past week; it's unnatural.

"Does it still hurt?" Rachel whispers and her hot breath tickles the skin.

"A little." She admits, eyes lingering over parted lips. When her mother had asked what happened, she'd sheepishly joked that Finn's head was a lot harder than even _she _thought. Punching someone, again, definitely wasn't on Quinn's to-do list.

(Her mother, surprisingly, was _proud _of her and had bought her dinner).

She's wonders, wistfully, how Puck will react when he gets back.

Quinn's brought out of her thoughts by the slightest flutter against the bruise of her skin and she turns to see Rachel kissing it, eyes closed, and Quinn can't help but gasp at the sight. Her chest tightens and her breath catches and there's no doubt where her eyes are, right now. She wishes she were still driving so that she might have an excuse to turn away.

"No one's ever punched someone for me, before. I used to think it was barbaric but..." Rachel's breath caresses the sore like a healing touch, eyelashes barely fluttering and tickling the ridge of her knuckle. "Now I think it's quite valiant. Thank you."

Rachel presses another kiss against her hand and this one lasts a little longer and Quinn's worried that _she's _going to have to be the one to pull away, until unbelievably beautiful eyes turn to catch unguarded hazel and her heart stops moving. It just...stops. Everything stops.

Quinn thinks about leaning forward, for a moment—her tongue darting out over her lips and her heart beating faster than her mind or insecurities can catch up to—but in the next she's smiling at Rachel and gently brushing her cheek with the back of her hand. "You're worth protecting." Rachel looks a little startled by the confession but Quinn just squeezes Rachel's hand and gets out of the car, thankful when the cold breeze hits her in the face and wakes her up.

Dreams weren't meant for living, anyways.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **11/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

* * *

><p>Quinn blinks as she looks down at her computer. She doesn't know <em>how <em>this piece of knowledge came across the screen but Wikipedia's _crazy _like that—anything's better than homework—and she wets her lips as she looks over at her best friend.

The sound of Mrs. Snuggleton and Valerie Bernitelli (she feels like such a loser for even _knowing _their names, seriously) is almost like the little pitter-pattering of a death sentence.

"Uh...Rach?" The downtrodden teenager's head lolls to the side and even though she's taken the breakup with Finn pretty well, this still might be a bad time to tell her. Oh well, better to just rip off the band-aid. "You know it's illegal to own ferrets in New York, right?"

The two ferrets instantly stop leaping around in their cage and Rachel's eyes widen as she looks at the bearer of her bad news, mouth hanging open in shock. It's so deathly silent in the house that Quinn almost looks at the clock on her laptop to make sure they haven't gone back in time to when her parents found out they were pregnant.

Rachel lets out a small noise from the back of her throat.

Okay, scratch that—screw that stupid dinner with her parents; _this _is much more awkward.

"But...but..._Along Came Polly_." She weakly protests and Quinn just shrugs.

"Health code regulations." She mutters.

Rachel looks like she's about to faint before she looks over at the cage and the ferrets look back at her in shock. And then it's seriously _creepy _how this look of determination on her face twists and settles as she looks at them.

"Oh." Is all she says.

Quinn prays to God she didn't just make Rachel kill her ferrets.

–

Oh, God, Rachel killed her ferrets.

She probably over-dosed them on anti-depressants. She probably flushed them down the toilet like a fish.

Maybe she ran over them with her car. Maybe she pretended to go hunting and then shot them. Maybe—

Okay, Quinn's history with pets isn't that _great_, but she's seriously worried because as soon as she mentioned the whole ex-nay on the erret-fay thing, Rachel, well, hasn't even _mentioned _her ferrets. At first Quinn was just dismissive...until she went over and saw that there wasn't a single trace of the ferrets in Rachel's room.

There isn't even the _hint _of a musk smell and Rachel purposefully doesn't look in the corner where they used to occupy, smile so falsely large it could split bricks.

In a moment of hysteria, Quinn actually looks over at the corner and sees a glove there—a _gardening _glove—and nearly passes out. "Quinn?" Rachel asks, tone worried, "Are you alright?"

"I...uh...I'm fine."

It's the _Italians _that "ice" people, right? Not the Jews? Quinn remembers her old pastor giving a speech about the necessity of being wary of stereotypes, but she's not too sure about this. Rachel's _crazy _about those ferrets, but she's even crazier about New York, and they were in the way.

Santana always used to say that Rachel was probably a serial killer. Did she go all _Single White Female? _

"Quinn, you look absolutely pale." Rachel mumbles, back of her hand coming to rest on Quinn's forehead.

But, then again, the Jews all went and killed Jesus, right, so some ferrets would be no—

"I'm...fine." She croaks and then looks into Rachel's concerned eyes and realizes how much of an _idiot _she's being. The small brunette might be able to send a little Phillipino girl to a crackhouse, but she's a _vegan _for Pete's sake. She wouldn't hurt a creature to save her life. "I think I just need some air." Quinn's just had some issues with household pets since her gramps shot Hunter—he _never _liked that dog—and she knows Rachel's a much better person than that but...God, she's being _crazy_.

"Okay, Quinn." Rachel guides her outside and Quinn shakes her head.

She's not just being stupid, she's being _crazy. _She saw Rachel totally smack the crap out of a cockroach, once, but who _doesn't _hate cockroaches. Sure, Rachel might be all neurotic over her break-up with Finn and holding somewhat psychotic tendencies towards living things, but she'd never—

"Oh my_ God_." Quinn whispers, hand clamping over her mouth when they go out to the backyard and there's actually a freshly-covered hole in the freshly-dug-up-ground. Big enough to fit two ferrets in.

"What?" Rachel gasps and whips her head around, grabbing onto shaking forearms. "Are you alright? Are you—"

"I made you kill your ferrets!" Quinn squeaks, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

The look Rachel gives her—if she had been in any form of rational mind—is probably the craziest, most hilarious look that's ever been directed towards the hysterical ex-pregnant-teen. "You...I..._what_?"

"I knew I should have waited to tell you!" She moans, shaking her head.

"...Are you taking hallucinogens, Quinn?"

"I was finally starting to like them and—"

"I thought all of those jokes about you taking crack cocaine were petty, but I'm starting to think they're founded."

"—You're all emotional from Finn's big stupid face and this is _all _my fault." She groans and Rachel blinks.

"Oh my God, you're serious." Brown eyes widen the same time green clamp down in shame. "You seriously think I _killed _my _ferrets_?" She shrieks.

"Yes." Quinn blinks, rage filling her stomach. "And how _could _you, Rachel! They depended on you. They aren't even _here _anymore and there was a gardening glove in your room and there's a _ferret-sized-hole _in your backyard!"

Rachel just gapes at her.

"I'm planting _gardenias_." Her facial expression is torn between furious, hurt, and freakishly amused. "I was trying to facet my emotions and restless energy from stress and depression towards something productive."

"But...but you looked at them like you were going to _kill _them." Quinn supplies.

"I would never kill _anything_!" Rachel yelps, face red, "Save for maybe _you _but I'm sure the court would think it was a deed to the community. I might gain a medal, you _lunatic_!"

"Hey!" Quinn protests, hands on her hips.

"You thought I was going to kill my _ferrets_!" She shrieks, hands flailing about, "I gave them up which, by the way, was absolutely heart-breaking to me, because I knew that I would not always be able to live with them. I decided it would be better for them to acclimate to their new home as soon as possible. Something I thought _you _would understand."

Quinn feels like a jack-ass. "I'm a jack-ass."

"Yes." Rachel growls, huffing, "You are." She moves to storm out but Quinn grabs her arm.

"I'm sorry." She supplies and this appeases the other girl. "Why didn't you talk to me about it."

"I figured I would if you _mentioned _anything, but I didn't want to bring up such a sore topic." Lips purse before she sighs, shaking her head. "You seriously thought I would _kill _them."

Quinn shuffles, "You didn't see the way you looked at them after I told you." Rachel's glare is murderous. "Kind of like that." She hits her shoulder. "Ow, I'm sorry."

"You certainly should be."

"If it helps..." She sighs, "I think it was the right idea."

Rachel's eyes search her face. "That does help slightly." She admits. "But, I feel the need to inform you, the next hole I dig in my garden _will _be for your body."

Quinn laughs awkwardly and Rachel just looks at her.

"That's not funny, Rach."

Rachel just walks inside.

"That's not funny!" She yelps, quickly clamoring inside after her.

–

When Quinn writes Puck that she had thought her best friend had killed her pets, during their lunch period (since Rachel just ignores her and rehearses the whole time) she's not surprised that he uses one of his phone calls just to _laugh _at her.

It takes two full days of apologizing and a box of vegan chocolates before the brunette eases up. The next day Quinn slips a picture into her best friend's locker and Rachel finally walks up to her with a sad smile on her face.

"You actually had a picture of us?" She asks, voice so small and in awe and Quinn just shrugs. She took a picture of Rachel wrestling with her ferrets the second time she went to her house (she just...happened to have her camera, she didn't _want _one, or anything) and she decided to keep it because the picture was downright adorable.

"Yeah." Quinn shrugs, smile soft. "I thought it'd be nice to have. I don't know...something to remember them by." Rachel loved her ferrets and the way she tucks the picture against her heart, smile watery and eyes sincere, makes Quinn feel like even _more _of an idiot for thinking she'd ever have any ill-will towards them. "I'm really sorry you had to let them go." Sometimes dreams mean giving things up.

Rachel nods and Quinn feels a distant pang in her heart, marveling at the idea of just what her best friend would give up to have her future.

"I love it, Quinn." She leans up and places the softest of kisses on her cheeks, "Thanks."

–

The Berry's joke around like they _know _each other and it's sort of a marvel to watch. Hiram and Leroy banter in all fun, their jokes light, not harsh and critical. They laugh at each other and smile at each other and are even competitive. Rachel looks radiant, eyes sparkling and hair tousling from so much laughter. She looks quick to please her father's but the instant joy of being in their presence (even if there are very few moments of it, Quinn knows) is not squandered on teenage whining or pouting. Maybe this is the way Rachel's the most mature—in appreciating what she has.

She's been coming to these game nights for a while (sometimes, both of Rachel's fathers will just stop and _look _at them with this weird look in their eyes, but it's been pretty smooth and...surprisingly happy) but, still, though, Quinn remembers what it was like, competing for her father's attention with Lauren, even subconsciously, and she by no means wants to step on Rachel's shoes. The way her best friend's arm twines with hers, the way she leans into her and laughs, the way their shoulders bump and their legs cross, suggests it isn't such a bother. But, still.

"You don't mind me coming over like this, right?" Quinn asks that night after they're both tucked into Rachel's bed, a tan arm thrown over her stomach in a display of possessiveness (not over Quinn but the bed, ironically; Rachel doesn't like sharing _anything_, let alone her bed, and while she doesn't mind Quinn, she still minds not having space to sprawl like a cat. Fortunately, sleeping like this isn't new to the blonde due to several cheering competitions and a very bed-sprawl-happy Santana Lopez).

"What do you mean?" She responds, turning, tucking her side against Quinn's, arm naturally sliding down to arch over a smooth, pajama-clad hip. The spot where the skin of her arm meets the sliver of her hip is warm and quieting.

"I mean..." Quinn, for a moment, searches for her words. "I know you don't get to see your dads a lot." She settles on. "I don't want to...get in the way of that, or anything."

"I was the one who invited you in the first place." Rachel's tone sounds confused, leaning up on her elbow to fully look over her friend, not moving her arm.

"Yeah." She'd figured that, of course. "But it doesn't mean—"

"I want you here, Quinn." Her voice is sure and eyes clear, both annoyed and amused with Quinn's hesitance. "If I didn't want you, you wouldn't be in my bed, right now." Quinn's eyebrows furrow the same time Rachel's lips tuck to the right, her lips puckering. "Okay, that sounded horribly suggestive."

Quinn rolls her eyes but she can't help it; she giggles. Rachel smiles widely down at her before she unceremoniously drops back down and snuggles into the blonde's side, arm curling, smile pressing against her neck. It tingles and spreads and her eyes close on reflex. The waitress is pretty sure that there's a large majority of the bed that isn't being used, right now, but finds she doesn't really mind this possessiveness, that much, either.

"Okay." She agrees, rolling over so that Rachel adjusts and they're facing each other. The other girl looks so peaceful and complacent. "I like your family." She decides.

"I like them, too. I'm a little partial." Rachel's still smiling, fingers pressing against the arch of her back, other hand supporting her head. Quinn thinks Rachel hasn't smiled enough since Finn and she's happy to see the smile return easily to her friend's face.

"It's like...a real family." Quinn mumbles, shaking her head in bemusement. It's something she's not really very aware of, like a different musical style being introduced into a culture that wasn't prepared for it. She wasn't sure how she feels about it, but now she's pretty sure she loves it (She _does _listen to Rachel sing every day, after all).

"You're welcome to be a part of it, if you want." Rachel innocently offers, eyes surprisingly sincere, dancing. It's a beautiful innocence that chokes Quinn and makes her long to protect it, surprise coloring hazel. When an extra second beats between them, Rachel jokes, "I've always wanted a sister."

Quinn chuckles, a little, feeling that same hand splay across the fabric on her back, fingertips scratching at the skin of her waist. She thinks of Lauren and thinks of Rachel and is pretty positive she never felt this way about her sister in any way, shape, or form; she never has. Even at her and Rachel's base form, she could never lay in a bed with her sister and feel this comfortable, this wanted. And she _definitely _wouldn't feel—well she definitely wouldn't trace the dip of her sister's abdomen.

"It's not that great." She tries to go the easiest path this conversation could take.

"I'm sure you're a great sister." Rachel appeases and Quinn rolls her eyes. She doesn't exactly _want _to be Rachel's sister.

"I'm sure you don't make suggestive comments to your sister in bed." She tries a different tactic and Rachel's face goes red before she laughs.

"Okay, fine. Fine. You won't be my sister." Rachel buries her head in Quinn's shoulder, for a moment, laughing, before she leans back. "We can figure something else out. You can be my—" Something makes Rachel cut off, her words stopping dead, and Quinn searches her eyes for a moment before brown shifts away, settling on the pillow. Quinn wonders if, maybe, Rachel thought the same thing she did, but tries not to hold too much weight on it. "We can figure something else out." When she turns back, her smile is a bit too wide. Still, though, her hand moves from Quinn's back to her side, down to her stomach, fingers still playing with the hemline of her shirt.

Quinn's mouth feels dry, but she smiles anyways. "An Honorary Berry?" For some odd reason, the thought actually makes her really..._happy_. Rachel appears to feel the same way because she once more buries her face in Quinn's shoulder, hand staying on her stomach, light arms wrapping around her back in response, holding the official Berry tightly against her chest.

"I like that." Rachel mumbles against the sensitive skin of her neck, smile obvious.

Quinn might not admit it, but she does, too.

–

Three days later, Quinn arrives to lunch to see a screen-printed black t-shirt with Rachel's face on it, along with her two fathers (is that the picture from her locker?) a large, happy, blazing font proclaiming _Honorary Berry _on the front. Quinn can't help but laugh.

"You don't actually have to wear it." Rachel disclaims, eyes dancing and tone light. "Though I don't understand why someone _wouldn't _want to have my face on their clothing." Quinn shakes her head, a smile on her lips. "It took me a couple of tries to actually figure out how to screen-print something..." She shifts on her feet, a little, "I might have also burnt a lamp in the process."

Quinn blinks at this. "You...burnt a lamp..." Part of her doesn't even _want _to know how that happened.

"Either way, this shirt is yours, and you are now officially in the clan."

"The cult?" Quinn smirks.

"_Clan_." Rachel chides. "I picked a dark color as to perfectly accentuate my features."

A blonde eyebrow arches. "You ran out of white, didn't you?"

Rachel purses her lips, "Maybe." She leans in closer, holding the shirt up to Quinn's torso, "But white's tacky, anyways."

"I love it." Quinn, surprisingly, actually does. She can't imagine actually _wearing _it anywhere—because, while she's sort of partial towards Rachel's face, she doesn't actually like drawing attention to herself, anymore; blending is good—but the idea that someone actually cares enough to even...it's almost too much. "Thank you." She's touched. "This is awesome."

"It's a little lame, I know, but you said..." Rachel fusses with her hands, "You don't have to—" Quinn catches her arm, eyes sincere.

"No, really. I've..." Quinn bites her lip and debates, for a moment, saying what she's about to. She decides Rachel's worth it. "I've never really had a family, before." It must sound like an awkward statement to the other girl, who doesn't know what it's like to not, but she _hasn't_. She's had parents and a sister, but she's never had a family.

"Well, you'll always have one now." Rachel says with a soft smile and Quinn wants to tell her friend not to make promises she can't keep...but she _wants _this one to stay, so she just smiles back and tugs the t-shirt over her head, ignoring the fact that a t-shirt over a sundress is a little awkward. But Rachel's laugh and delighted smile are enough to make her feel like it's worth the awkward. "It fits!" Rachel excitedly claps her hands.

"How's it look?" Quinn does a little spin for effect.

"Like you have good taste in clothing."

Halfway through lunch, Rachel tugs at the dark fabric and nods her head, "You don't really have to wear it."

"Oh, no, I want to see one more person's reaction."

When they walk into Glee, later, laughing, arm in arm, it takes Quinn a moment to fully display her chest to their unsuspecting audience. Santana literally falls out of her chair and starts praying to God in Spanish. When Finn turns beet red and half of the Glee club looks like they might have crapped their pants, that's just an added bonus.

Totally worth it.

–

When Puck finally comes home, Quinn's arms are so tight around him that she can't remember how to breathe and she's not sure why Rachel's eyes, on her back, make her feel so _restless_.

"So, I heard you docked Hudson, Baby Q." Are the first words he says to her and Quinn's face instantly goes crimson. Why does _everyone _keep mentioning that? She's done other things, seriously.

"Shut up, Puck." She growls, but he doesn't. By the end of Puck's welcome-home dinner, both Puck _and _Rachel are teasing Quinn about her right hook and the blonde wonders why she even has friends. Later, when Puck drops Quinn off at home, Judy actually hugs the tall man and scruffs his cheek, inviting him inside for desert, asking how he's been adjusting.

Quinn can't help but smile at Puck's shocked gratitude. She's a little stunned to find that the conversation is actually easy—that her mom and her baby's father are actually bonding and laughing and being generally..._okay _with each other—and when Judy catches Quinn's eyes, the blonde knows that it's for _her_.

She's not sure, really, how many things Judy Fabray has done for her, but this one means the most.

Quinn, at first, had been so mad at the boy that she hadn't written him...but after Puck had wrote _her, _she caved and wrote him every day about stupid things. About work—about Rachel—about Santana—and she's not surprised, when Puck leaves, to find that her mother had read one.

"You left it open on the counter, one day, and I was curious so..." Judy's voice is quiet, unknown, and Quinn's prepared to steel herself for what's to come. She's prepared for judgment and ridicule and bigotry. She's also kind of scared to death that her mother might know she works at an avante garde strip club. "You're right, Quinnie. He's a good boy."

Quinn blinks and looks over to see her mother's cautious, nervous smile. She reaches across and gratefully squeezes her mother's hand.

It's a mile.

–

Rachel Berry is apparently a horror movie fan. Quinn knew this—knew she _liked _horror movies—but, well...Quinn didn't know how much. Rachel's a little obsessed, actually, at times. It's a fact that Quinn Fabray learns when she has to sit down to watch every single horror movie known to man when a Friday the 13th rolls around. It's crazy because Rachel's seriously a _fan_.

It's a little disturbing.

But Rachel smiles and it's hard for Quinn to admit she's utterly _bored—_because, seriously, how many guys getting stabbed can you take—because Rachel looks so happy. She hasn't looked this happy since Finn and if Quinn didn't help her out with that, well...

Well she wouldn't be her best friend, would she?

–

They take Regionals by a landslide (or so Quinn naturally assumes because Rachel _rocked _it) with the oddest band of teenagers that's probably ever graced the stage. They had to throw together a whole entire performance (again) because Finn threw a hissy-fit last minute about singing a duet with Rachel that made the brunette's eyes tear too much. Quinn swears that if a job, school, a teenage pregnancy, _and _hormones don't kill her, Glee club just might, because, seriously, having to learn an entire song and choreography in twenty minutes is impossible...learning three is just stupidity.

She idly wonders what it'd be like to actually rehearse all year, for a change. She reminds herself to open up a dictionary to _Consistency _and show it to William Schuester next class.

Needless to say, though, Rachel defaulted into one of the most graceful, elegant opening acts Quinn's ever seen.

Their soloist has dark circles under her eyes and the emotion on her face is a little _too _real. Their leading man has a black eye. Artie forgets the choreography and rolls over Mercedes' foot (who lets out a note that thankfully fits into the three-part harmony they hastily worked up for the second number). Santana hisses when Sam gets a little _too _close to Brittany and their tape that they burned two minutes before the show on the little pimply kid's macbook in the third row (they bribed him with five bucks and Santana might have let him see her boobs) cracked halfway through the second number and skipped, causing all of their choreography to be off for a good twenty seconds. Quinn even forgets her cue to switch, second song, because she can't stop watching the way Rachel just...mesmerizes an audience.

After they miraculously even _finish _their set, the whole entire audience amazingly bursts into applause and they all stand there, hands clasped, mostly fake-smiles on their face. Rachel's hand is like a vice, in hers, clinging on for dear life, and mindlessly her other hand twists and slips up to her shoulder, easing and comforting. When she turns to look into her best friend's eyes, there's a mixed feeling of pain and accomplishment there, but they...ease when their gaze holds.

And then, like a beautiful serenade, Quinn's greeted with the most radiant, warming smile she's ever seen. It starts with a small lilt of humming and ends in a harmonious song of comfort and _calm_. Rachel's grip isn't as tight but almost...necessary...and she doesn't even notice that she's lost in those eyes until their name is being shouted out in first place.

Rachel's eyes widen, snapping over to the announcer, because it's like a time-warp, where their eyes met, and they turn back to Quinn's in an instant, a joined laugh leaving their lips. She squeals and leaps into her best friend's arms, both of them bouncing from disbelief.

It's kind of amazing for a moment because she can see Judy in the audience, tears in her eyes, and she can feel Rachel wrapped around her like a light on a Christmas tree, tears of relief pooling in her neck, a beaming smile burning into the exposed flesh—a welcome heat.

She just holds on, closes her eyes...and smiles.

–

On the bus ride home, Rachel's head is tucked against Quinn's shoulder, the brunette's fingers mindlessly gliding through her hair, content smiles on both of their faces. Everyone on the bus is cheering and laughing save for Finn who is sitting in the back, arms crossed, probably brooding.

"Quinn," Rachel leans forward, breath a wisp against the nape of a collarbone, eyes dancing, tone almost conspiratorially, "I have a secret to tell you." She leans up, indulgent, head rolling backwards.

"What?" She smirks.

"I'm over Finn." Rachel confides, tone playful and eyes dancing—they don't flit to the back to rest on the large hunk or focus on _anywhere else_...they just stay on hazel the entire time—her fingers still playing through blonde strands. "I honestly don't know if I was ever...under, to begin with."

Quinn quirks her eyebrow, not really sure what to make of this and definitely not about to vocalize what her stomach is telling her to make of it. To be honest, she doubts the validity of the statement but Rachel's never lied to her, before, and she's not sure why she would lie about this. Still, though, she has a year of boyfriend-stealing, pining, and this past couple week's tears to tell her just how _not into _Finn Rachel Berry is. "That's...great?"

"Don't tell anyone, though. I'm going to utilize his ineffective brooding to maximize my influence in Glee club." Rachel's tone is pompous and knowing and Quinn just chuckles, her stomach clenching and her head swooning.

"Whatever, Harriet the Spy." She jokes but nods anyways. She won't tell anyone. She won't need to.

Hell, two can play at the _maximizing influence _game.

Rachel still has dark circles under her eyes, though, and Quinn might not admit it out loud or anything, but she's a little concerned. Maybe Rachel never really did love Finn—maybe she never really was _under _him—but what he did obviously still had an impact on her; she doesn't blame her.

It takes a real asshole to cheat on someone and lie to them like that—she'd know. Maybe Finn wasn't as _much _of an asshole as Quinn Fabray is (as much as it pains her to admit it) but he pretty much cheated on her, in the blonde's book. Her book's pretty simple—even Finn could read it.

"Hey," She gently whispers, thumb coming up to tuck Rachel's chin when her smile turns a little too false for her liking. All things take time and this is what friends are for, right? "Tell me about that new Sutton Foster musical."

Rachel looks grateful and Quinn just smiles.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **12/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N**: I took free liberty with some facts in this story-including Quinn (and other members of the verse's) birthday.

* * *

><p>It's at their Glee club party that out of the middle of nowhere—to Quinn, at least—Rachel Berry throws her arms around her neck and giddily inquires, "What's your birthday?" of her best friend.<p>

Quinn freezes, her fingers already on Rachel's waist, eyes widening slightly for a moment before she cleans the slate and smiles widely down at her bubbly friend. All of Glee club is laughing and eating five dollar pizza (Mr. Schuester is even rapping) and Quinn feels the instant need to change the topic but the hopeful look in dark eyes keeps her talking.

"Why?" She side-steps.

"Because you're my _friend_." Rachel says, slowly, and Quinn feels like she's five and staring at her Kindergarten teacher, for a moment. "You know mine, it's only fair I know yours." This is true. Rachel isn't very subtle in the manner in which she always manages to bring up her birthday (still _months _away) every single time she sees something she likes in the mall. The hints aren't really hints—just statements—and it always struck Quinn as funny because she doesn't really know what it feels like to want to grow _up_ so badly because she feels too old, already.

"You only tell me yours because you want me to buy you stuff." Quinn's fingers idly slip along the edge of Rachel's shirt, puckering out on the line of her waist, and quirks an eyebrow. Rachel pouts.

"Well, obviously." At least she doesn't deny it. "But I want to buy _you _stuff, too. Friendships—especially _best _friendships—are two way streets."

"You just want to make sure I actually buy you something for your birthday."

"That too." Rachel smiles, fingers running through the smaller hairs on Quinn's neck as she cups the back of it, smile soft and genuine. She idly wonders if Finn has seen this smile but, from the look on his face, he probably hasn't, and she feels some small, spiteful victory before she's once more placed back into their conversation. "Come on, tell me."

"I don't do birthdays." Quinn, quite frankly, hates them. Especially hers. She's not the only one that has it and she doesn't know what it's like to get that whole cake and gift thing, only awkward dinner parties and silence and...

Quinn stiffens.

"It's true." Santana pipes up as she physically—Rachel isn't the only one who's bad at subtlety—pulls them apart, giving Quinn a reproachful look. The blonde shrugs. "Q hates birthdays."

Rachel crosses her arms and looks between Santana—a glare she probably can't help passing over her face, for a moment (hey, she did _just _find out that she slept with her now-ex-boyfriend) before she focuses back on her best friend. "That's impossible!"

"Just because you think the world should celebrate your glorious presence doesn't mean the rest of us—"

"Santana." Quinn warns, crossing her own arms and quirking an eyebrow and the other girl instantly quiets, jaw setting.

"Whatever." She appeases, pointing towards Quinn with her back thumb. "She won't tell anyone." Rachel, for a moment, gets the look in her eye that means she's about to plot something and the Head Cheerio shakes her head. "Coach erased any evidence of our births out of school records so that we could compete with this Russian exchange student, freshman year, before Quinn came back."

Rachel's eyebrows furrow. "Came...back...?"

Quinn rolls her eyes, stomach twisting, "I got sick for a week near competition." She explains mildly. The look Santana gives her makes her nervous. "What? I came back."

"Yeah." Santana drawls, gaze darker than Quinn cares to look into. "Anyways, there's, like, no evidence of our existence in school records anymore because Coach calls it her fail safe."

"She says it makes us good spies." Brittany shouts from across the room before going back to her conversation with Tina about cats. Santana's eyes hold across the room and Quinn gives her an apologetic look (well, okay, what Santana will understand as an apologetic look) when their eyes catch.

"Yeah, that." Santana re-inforces, looking down at her nails and trying to look bored.

There's a moment of silence where Rachel looks between them. "Seriously?"

"Russian exchange student actually disappeared before the competition. There's rumors." Quinn shrugs. "So, yeah."

Rachel huffs. "Your license must certainly display your—"

"Nope." Santana and Quinn discount, together, and the blonde looks between her friend and the other cheerleader across the room, a little distracted for a moment, a sigh leaving her lips. Things are starting to get downright _awkward _between those two.

"Coach got rid of that, too." Quinn acknowledges.

"Changed Cindy's social security number, too." Santana continues and this fully steals Quinn's concentration. For a moment she forgets which Cindy her friend is talking about—is actually a little frightened about her job—before she remembers that the Senior Cheerio their Freshman year and reminds herself that some people have the same first name.

"Wait, I thought she actually erased Cindy's identity when she tried to quit."

"Cindy Lauper?" Santana clarifies. That was their nickname for the girl. She had chipmunk cheeks and was a bit _too _perky.

"Yeah. She tried to quit because Coach called her fat." Quinn idly scratches her elbow and Santana ruminates.

"No, she just got her father sent to Lebanon to work at a Walmart there, or something."

"They have Walmarts in Lebanon?" Quinn smiles at her friend.

"Maybe he built one." Santana smirks, a glint in her eye.

"Knowing Coach, he probably ended up building it and then demolishing it." Quinn can see Santana's eyes stop flitting over to Brittany, across the room, and she can't help but feel a little accomplished. Santana's been _moping _all party, trying to act like a social butterfly but, truth is, the only two people Santana actually seriously talks to in this room are probably Brittany and Quinn. Social Butterfly is not one of Santana Lopez's distinctions. "Or maybe he's selling beef jerky at a jerky stand."

"Lucky bastard." Santana grumbles, shaking her head. "Do they have beef jerky in Lebanon?"

"Do they even have stands?" Quinn counters and this, finally, makes Rachel gasp.

"That must be one of the most _offensive _conversations I've ever heard!" Rachel whines, hand on her hip, and Quinn and Santana can't help it—they laugh, sharing a silent, knowing look.

"This party's lame, Q, wanna go get some stix?" Santana casually asks, eyes flitting to the back of the room and Quinn crosses her arms.

"Only if you don't pout." It's a challenging tone and, fortunately, Quinn's still taller than her sometimes-friend because the look she gives her is murderous.

"I'm not _pouting_." It sounds, for a moment, like Santana is about to tack on something unnecessarily offensive just to be offensive—like fatty or tubbers or something—but she just looks back to the end of the room, instead, and Quinn gruffly sighs and slips her arm between the crook of Santana's elbow.

"I like you _so _much better when you're a bitch." Quinn truthfully intones because, seriously, this is kind of pathetic.

"Shut up, Fabray." Santana doesn't pull away from her arm—doesn't say anything _else _either—and that's a large enough testament for Quinn to nod. "You're paying."

Yeah, Quinn figured. She always does, whenever she eats with Santana.

Quinn looks up at Rachel who, honestly, looks startlingly sad and more than a little lonely. It's surprising, though, because Quinn isn't the one that says something, it's _Santana_. "You're paying for short-stack, too." Santana sighs like saying it was painful, but when their eyes meet, Quinn can't help but smile gratefully. "It's whatever." She mumbles under her breath. Quinn squeezes the muscle of her arm.

"I...what?" Rachel, for her part, looks flabbergasted. Quinn turns to her and gestures towards the door.

"That's a lie. You're paying for yourself." Her eyes slit, but there's a twinkle in her eyes she's certain Rachel will recognize, pointing towards the door. "Come on, we've been here long enough."

"You want me to..." Rachel looks between Santana and Quinn, "_Santana _wants me to—"

"Don't push it." Santana rolls her shoulder and looks back down at her nails. Quinn finds the habit annoying, sometimes, but she's learned to deal.

"Are you coming, Rach?" Quinn cuts between them, tone softer with Rachel than it is with Santana and the smallest brunette just blinks.

"I'm...I'm team leader." She weakly points out. She doesn't look back at the party that isn't really a party, just blinks some more. Quinn laughs and leans forward, slipping her free arm between Rachel's elbow and leading them out to the car.

They end up at Breadstix and even though Santana makes a couple of comments about getting slushied for being seen with losers—instantly responded to with a wonderful passive-aggressive play by Quinn each time—Quinn sits down next to Rachel and Santana sits across from them. Rachel looks like she feels horrendously awkward—it's very similar to their first lunch at Breadsticks, really, and the thought makes Quinn a little nostalgic—and the blonde looks between the two.

She remembers getting all of the Cheerios to miraculously like each other and knows that it's just a matter of conversation manipulation. It takes a moment longer than it should for her to settle on a tactic before she leans forward across the table, hand slipping down to twine with dark fingers to her right, before she whispers, "So did you guys see _Scream 4 _yet?" She's well aware Rachel's seen it because, well, she saw it with her, but it's easiest to start out small.

Ten minutes into the conversation Quinn Fabray gives herself a small pat on the back.

"Oh, that's utterly _ludicrous_. Hannibal Lector is by far superior to—"

"It's hard to be _superior_ when Freddy Krueger has his hand shoved up your ass—"

Quinn giggles.

It's not so hard to get Santana Lopez and Rachel Berry to talk, after all.

It's also a little amusing how her best friend—small little pint of a girl that she is—gets so utterly _pumped _up at talking about Horror movies, of all things. It's endearing.

Halfway through the meal (which, surprisingly, isn't going bad, for Quinn's standards) Rachel gets up to use the bathroom and Santana must catch herself actually _smiling _because it drops the moment Quinn looks at her. Quinn's silently a little jealous of Rachel because, seriously, she's had to pee since they got to the restaurant, but she's not stupid enough to leave Santana and the other brunette alone; nothing good would come of _that_.

"Admit it, she's not bad." Quinn can't help the large smirk on her face. Santana rolls her eyes.

"Don't toot your new _best buddy's _horn there, Fabray." There's a long moment of comfortable silence as Santana tears apart a breadstick, popping it into her mouth and chewing calmly. Quinn's neck itches and her fingers clench against the table. "She doesn't know about your birthday."

Quinn's mouth dries. Santana doesn't, exactly, know about her birthday either. "Obviously." She drawls, playing it safe, "Otherwise she wouldn't ask about it."

"Don't be a smartass." Santana glares but her gaze isn't as hard as it should be. "I don't know when it is, either." She continues and Quinn sighs, her point brought out.

"No, you don't." It's careful—guarded—and Santana takes another bite of breadstick, eyes searching her up and down. Quinn trusts Santana—when you see someone for every day straight, hours upon hours spent bleeding and sweating and sometimes (silently) crying, that happens—but she trusts her as far as she can literally throw her. And catch her. It's a feeling that's probably mutual.

Actually, really, the metaphor of the epic Cheerleading Throw is quite applicable to their friendship. Whenever Santana threw Quinn she never once dropped her...but that doesn't mean Quinn thinks people, even built machines like Santana, are perfect. People slip. Ankles are a millisecond off. Balance isn't centered and Quinn, on top and structured by the shoulders of her friend beneath her, can fall. She'll recover—she always has—but falling's _never _fun without intention.

Quinn trusts Santana more than she trusts any other woman she's thrown—and she's thrown Santana the farthest—but that doesn't mean she's easy to trust, or that one shouldn't be guarded in case of a fall. It's common sport logic. If you don't brace yourself for the worst every time you go up, when you come down you'll just be _screwed._

Santana must notice the unease around the line of conversation, because she looks towards the bathroom—towards where Rachel is—and sighs. "Whatever. When you're 21 just buy me some booze, or something."

Quinn's shoulders are still rigid but she ducks her head before looking up at her friend with a critical eye. The last couple of hours have been spent laughing, seeing Santana's eyes light and carefree and, though the other girl would never admit it, kind of happy.

She likes Santana more than Brittany. Santana has a firm handshake and a strong shoulder and a good, determined look. She's loyal. Brittany's flighty and open and a good worker, but Santana was the first person who looked at Quinn, light arm in a cast and hazel eyes on fire, and tucked her for her dismount; Brittany was too scared she'd hurt her and any girl who's been through life knows that sometimes you have to risk hurting someone in order to progress—in order to win.

Santana knows Quinn better than anyone else on that field ever did—even Coach—and Quinn knows she knows her right back.

"I'm glad you're smiling." Quinn honestly is. Santana looks kind of off-guard, but Quinn's said a lot of things that catch her friend off-guard, these days.

Santana hesitates popping another breadstick into her mouth as Rachel sits down, a large smile on her face. She looks between both of them before settling on Quinn.

"You, too."

–

The rest of the evening is spent spinning catty barbs towards each other in friendly banter between Quinn and Santana, eyes dancing and food (what Santana will let herself eat of it, what Quinn wants to eat of it, and what Rachel _can _eat of it) easy. Rachel is quieter than she is when she's alone with Quinn, but smiles just the same, and Santana even tolerates her, giving her a glare at the end of the meal that (Quinn knows) means that she thinks she's _alright. _Neither of them particularly like each other...at all...but it's better than it _could _be. When Quinn drops Santana off at her house Rachel looks affronted, startled, and a little offended.

"Later man-hands—later fatty." Santana throws at them before she slams the door shut and Rachel gasps, twisting her head to her left before twisting to the right, a look of outrage on her face and mouth open. Quinn leans over the brunette, hand clamping on her mouth, before she sticks her head out the window.

"Be careful when you're on top of the pyramid tomorrow, Santana! When you spread your legs the fish smell might make the freshmen pass out!" Santana and Quinn haven't gotten into an insult-fight since last year when they were bored one day during Glee. Their freshman year _your mom _fight was much better (if a little more juvenile) and Quinn, admittedly, hasn't said anything remotely improper to her friend all year. She finds insulting Santana, most days, to be trivial and unnecessary now that she doesn't _have _to. Right now, however, she finds it warranted, just because she knows the effect.

If it'll make Santana smile, it's alright in Quinn's book.

Santana promptly turns around and flicks her off, a smirk nevertheless in place.

"I give that a weak five." Santana calls from the porch light and Quinn, still leaning over Rachel, quirks an eyebrow.

"Funny, that's less than I paid for your mom last night!"

Quinn can't help the large smirk that crawls across her face and Santana actually _laughs—_guffaws, really—and resumes flicking her off before turning around and throwing open the door.

"Nine!" She shouts before slamming the door shut and Quinn leans back in her seat, a proud and accomplished look on her face, removing her hand and placing it back on the wheel.

Rachel, for her part, looks utterly scandalized.

"That was...that was barbaric."

Quinn starts the car before she looks over and the look on her face probably only makes Rachel more uneasy. "You think _that _was barbaric? You should have seen what I did to her mother." She gives her a lecherous smirk and Rachel reddens, instantly, before she covers her face with her hands. It's probably infinitely more annoying to the brunette who seems the world like she's torn between laughing and crying. Sometimes spending time with Santana rubs off on the blonde.

"That was horrible." Rachel finally settles on chuckling, face still red. "You've been spending too much time with Noah and Santana." She decides. "In fact, I feel as if that's entirely out of character for you to even say. I blame both of them."

"You know me so well, hmm?" Quinn hums, pulling out of Santana's driveway.

"I'd like to say I do, yes." Rachel's face is still red but her smile is easier.

"Santana and I used to get into these...insult fights all the time when I was Head Cheerio." Quinn shakes her head. "I think that's why she respected me."

"Santana..._respects _you?" Rachel sounds very unsure of this. Quinn tilts her head to the side, small smile on her face.

"Yeah." Quinn shrugs. "I'd never admit it to her, but I respect her, too."

"But you'd admit it to _me_."

Quinn looks over for a moment before looking back at the road. "Yeah." Rachel's smile is clear even when she's not looking at her.

"So you'd get into...insult fights?"

"All the time." Quinn assents. "We used to have to get to the field at 4 AM most days, even on weekends, and we'd stay there until it got really late at night." She can't help the feeling brewing in her chest. Maybe it's just a day for nostalgia. "Keeping the girls motivated and in line was pretty tough sometimes since I was so young, but I figured out a way to get all of them on my side, eventually."

Rachel blinks. "I never really thought that it must be hard to actually _be _a cheerleader." She mumbles.

Quinn gives her a look. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind next time I watch a play."

"Point taken. I apologize; continue, please."

"Anyways, at first it was just a way of getting Santana to...I don't know...like me." Quinn shifts a little. A lot of her youth was spent trying to get people to like her. "But then, after really tough nights, San would come up to me and we'd just...do it for fun."

Rachel's tone is incredulous, "Putting each other down somehow managed to form a better sense of camaraderie?"

Quinn shrugs. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way."

Rachel slumps back into her seat. "I don't think I will ever comprehend your relationship dynamic with Santana Lopez."

Quinn spends a moment too long looking over (not endangering the car, but endangering nonetheless), slipping her hand across and resting it on her best friend's knee.

"I don't think she really understands ours, either."

–

"Do the duet with me, Quinn." Are the first words out of Rachel's mouth, seamless and impatient as always. She seems even sterner—even _more _determined. Quinn rolls her eyes. Ever since the duet competition Rachel-who is freaking _determined _and _stubborn _for such a small girl-won't let the idea go. Every morning, she's asked. Every evening, she's asked. All she wants, she claims, is to do a duet with Quinn-the words 'just one song' (which it will _never _stop at one song, they both must certainly know) have become a common morning greeting-and Quinn rolls her eyes. No. She's not doing it. There's nothing that Rachel could say to _make _her do it.

"Seriously, what part of _no_ do you not understand?" She puts up two of her books, grabbing one out of the locker.

"The part where you _refuse _me, even though I'm undeniably correct about how our voices would sound together." Rachel sounds hopeful but Quinn, honestly, doesn't want to sing with Rachel. The girl does have her drawbacks. Even when she was singing _Baby Got Back_, the young star took her time to point out the fact that she was off her timing in the third verse.

"Oh, I certainly _can_ refuse—" Their conversation is interrupted rudely by a familiar Jew-fro holding a microphone and a camera. Both of them roll their eyes.

"Hey sexy ladies, what's your favorite song?" He quirks his eyebrows in what Quinn assumes he thinks is an enticing way—though it really just makes her want to kind of throw up—and ignores him.

"What are you, ghost-face from _Scream_?" Santana, her timing always impeccable (Quinn swears the girl must have _insult-dar_, or something) manages to snark as she walks up to Quinn.

"Actually, that iconic line is _'What's your favorite scary movie'_, Santana." Rachel instantly corrects and the dark girl rolls her eyes.

"Whatever, Humpty Dumpty." She looks at her nails, picking the gunk out, obviously ignoring Jew-Fro—Quinn _honestly_ can't remember his name—before she shrugs one shoulder. "Don't care."

"Play nice, San." Quinn instantly admonishes and all of them stop, all four people around her staring at her like she was on cocaine...which, oh yeah, all of the school thought she did, now. "What? Shut up. I'm trying to be nice." She mumbles, wishing that Rachel would stop looking like she just bought her Barbra Streisand, herself, and like Santana was about to throw up. Jew-fro looks like he's about to pull a _Mail-Man_ right in his pants but, then again, Quinn always thought he looked like that.

"Yeah, I noticed...are you _okay_?" Santana actually sounds a little concerned—like Quinn being _nice _to Rachel in public makes Santana actually look like she has a _heart _towards the blonde. The other girl has finally begrudgingly conceded to the two of them being friends, but she seems to forget every time she actually _witnesses _it. Which is weird since they just spent all of last night, together. "Are you dying from cancer, or something? Like...a brain tumor? 'Cause it's okay. My dad's a doctor. He's, like, totally badass. He found out that the caring part of my brain was a brain tumor when I was seven and, _zip_" She makes a cutting movement, "popped it right out of there."

The most annoying part is that Santana's actually kind of being _serious_. The frightening part is that Quinn isn't sure whether or not it's about _Quinn _having a brain tumor or _Santana_.

"Shut up, Santana. We both know you've only had _two _things operated on." Quinn mumbles, turning around to see Rachel huffing at Jew-fro.

"While I do love the camera and the attention, Jacob Ben Israel," Oh yeah, right, _that's_ his name. Quinn isn't sure whether Rachel's adamant use of everyone's first/whole name is endearing or obnoxious. She is currently leaning towards endearing. Maybe she _does _have a brain tumor. "I would appreciate if you would stop _stalking_ me, thank you." Jacob still stands there, the _Mail Man_ looking like a much more real possibility now that Rachel is actually _talking _to him. Quinn rolls her eyes and shakes her hand in front of the camera.

"Go away." Quinn turns fully and quirks an eyebrow towards the small brunette who _isn't_ staring at her like she's about to die. "How do you know that, anyways, Rachel?" She looks confused for a second.

"It's common knowledge." She says simply, giving her a look.

Rachel probably thinks Quinn's talking about the whole _Scream _thing—she was actually talking about Jacob Ben Israel's name.

Santana, for her part, is just gaping between them. "Okay, see? You're showing interest in the midget in public, Quinn. Brain tumor." She's saying it like she's desperately trying to save what little face her kind-of friend has left.

Right, she's doing so _well _in that public-face department.

Seriously, Quinn thought Santana would get _used _to this, after a while.

Quinn just ignores her and decides to poke fun at her easily-flustered friend for a moment. "Really? No long-winded sentence about how it benefits to know all areas of film in case it somehow surprised some random producer somewhere with your awesome scary movie knowledge so that you could become star actress, or something?"

There's a moment of silence between all three of them. Jacob Ben Israel is _still _standing there.

"Actually...yes, that too." Rachel chuckles, her teeth fussing at her lip like she's admitting something bashful, "You're well aware of my firm love of the cult-film genre, Quinn."

Quinn's not sure why it makes her smile, the way Rachel actually admits their friendship so openly and brazenly, their eyes catching. It's not like they've hidden their friendship—far from it—but it's sort of...it's hard to describe.

It's like saying a wedding vow—like admitting something two people know to everyone else—it's cementing knowledge in front of others.

Jew-Fro says "_That's hot"_ the same time that Santana mutters "_Jesus H Christ, why am I still standing here with you freaking losers?" _

She doesn't bother to turn around and tell Santana that she's standing with her because there's no one else in their _right _mind that would sit next to Santana while she prattled on and on about her list of confessionary tales. Quinn prefers to focus on the creepier of the two—the one that she'd prefer _not _to procreate, someday, because the deep-down friend in her thinks that Santana will grow out of being a bitch and be a great mom...maybe—and she full-on bitch glares at the skinny man filming them. "Okay, seriously, get lost."

"Not before you tell me your favorite song." He whines and Santana leans forward to grab his camera and Quinn smirks. Even with Santana Head Cheerleader, the other girl jumps to do her dirty work. Old habits die hard, maybe; or friends just help friends...do their dirty work.

"Quinn, have you reconsidered my offer of the duet?" Rachel says it innocently, but the blonde can feel suspicion twirling in her stomach. Still, no one makes _Quinn Fabray_ back down from a decision.

"_No, _Rachel." She growls before twisting back to Santana and giving her a thankful smile.

Rachel, for her part, just smirks and pipes up before Santana can make Jacob turn off the camera, "Quinn's favorite song is the wondrous original _'Baby Got Back' _performed by Sir Mix-A-Lot." She turns around to her best friend with a _cat-got-the-fucking-canary, bitch _smile on her face, dark eyes flashing with something like challenge. Now it's Quinn's, Santana's, and Jacob's turn to all stare at the girl.

Quinn just glares. "Stop _telling _people that!" She growls, sees Rachel's triumphant expression, and then thinks better of letting it go that easily; Because, seriously, Rachel's told _everyone _that, every time Quinn refuses to do the duet with her...and now the whole _school _knows that Quinn kind of don't want none, if you ain't got buns. And it doesn't help that Santana's also looking at Quinn in that way that lets the blonde know if she walks away, now, she'll _never _live it down.

She twists towards the camera, seductively grabs it, and points towards Rachel, "Rachel likes to sing the '_Cheeky Song' _in the shower." She huskily winks towards Rachel before she saunters away and her (two) baffled friends are left standing there watching after her.

Rachel turns pitifully towards the camera before looking at Santana. "Don't look at me, freakshow, it's not my fault you infected Q with brain tumor herpes and then were too much of a dumbass to _not_ know that Q's the Queen epitome of passive aggressive bitch." Santana shakes her head, grimacing. "This is what I get for trying to be nice. She shouldn't even know you shower." Her face twists up for a moment, grumbling, "I know I wish _I_ didn't." And then she growls at the camera before she stalks away, her shoulders tight and face hiding something.

Quinn just laughs from down the hallway, sticking her tongue out at her supposedly-best-friend.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **13/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N**: I took free liberty with some facts in this story-including Quinn (and other members of the verse's) birthday.

* * *

><p>It's the first Thanksgiving that Quinn doesn't mind attending.<p>

There's no corporate dinner party or (worse) dinner with Grams who glares at everyone and asks too many questions. There's no passive aggressive requests to pass the salt or that always-awkward _what are you __**really **__thankful for _speeches (like that one time Uncle Jared quite plainly stated he _wasn't _thankful for his wife by saying he was so thankful for his secretary; they _still _aren't divorced). There's no asking where her sister is or distasteful looks when she politely asks for another piece of turkey, her aunt muttering, _are you sure you __**need**__ that, dear? _

It's a dinner for five at the Berry residence.

The Berry's, ever courteous and warming, dutifully insist upon the presence of the Fabray clan at their Thanksgiving celebration. Judy (surprisingly) seems excited at the invitation and before Quinn knows it, they're at the Berry's door holding a pan of homemade apple pie (vegan-friendly, of course) with two turkey oven mitts, an overly-wide smile, and a ridiculous nervousness crawling up from her stomach to her spine and down again.

It takes her mother politely refusing any alcohol beverage and clandestinely—with a loaded and secure look to her daughter—requesting some ginger ale, a hearty laugh from Leroy at her oven mitts, a football game on in the background, and a gentle touch to her back from one friend-extraordinaire Rachel Berry for her to relax and breathe in. Tofurkey, surprisingly, isn't horrible and neither is Hiram's cooking (his kiss the chef apron is generic but nevertheless endearing) though half of the items on the table are admittedly store-bought.

The most extraordinary part of the evening, however, is how well everyone apparently manages to get along. Judy and Hiram have the same taste in television and Leroy (though he is actually apparently a huge football fan, Quinn never would have guessed, and manages to get distracted by the game quite a bit) holds up his own between them. Well, if you ignore the random screaming at the television every five seconds, he does.

Rachel _still _doesn't care about football, much to Leroy's dismay, but tugs Quinn out to the couch near half-time to sit next to her and watch the half-time show even though it's really not that interesting. The smaller girl pulls up a long arm and tucks herself into it, adjusting a little, sighing in contentment when she becomes settled, and Quinn spares herself a moment to look down and smile, losing herself somewhere along the first moment she spared and the rest of moments that she couldn't help but give.

Leroy, Rachel, _and _her mother are now on the couch, enthralled in the game, and she can't help but laugh and shake her head when her mother accidentally cheers for the wrong team and gets a withering glare from the small man. She reluctantly pulls away from Rachel's protesting arms and slinks into the kitchen to help Hiram clean up, good manners too well-bred within her to not (and kind of not wanting to listen to Leroy rant about his football team for the next twenty minutes).

Hiram's hands instantly flick out in dismissal but Quinn grabs a dish and starts cleaning, anyways, ignoring him with a soft smile on her face. "You made me like tofurkey—I feel obligated." He shakes his head but lets her stay in his kitchen, anyways.

They're quiet, for a couple of moments, surprisingly content to stay in each other's company in silence, cleaning, the sound of a football game and laughter in their ears. Hiram's voice eventually interrupts, gaze casting to the side and piercing her with a small smile. "I took a picture of you two."

Quinn blinks, shifting a little. "Excuse me?" It's obviously, really, what he means, but she's not really sure what to say to that. "Me and Rachel?"

"No, you and the _tofurkey_." He deadpans. "Of course you and Rachel."

"I really like that tofurkey. You should take a picture with me and it, too." She shirks, tone playful. Hey, if Hiram's going to go and take pictures of her with things she likes, the tofurkey isn't a bad route to go.

"Smart Alec." He pulls off his overly-large rubber gloves and moves around the island to grab his phone before doubling back and flicking it, leaning over Quinn's shoulder, phone in front of both of them. He gives it to her with no reservation after the picture's open and walks back around to her other side.

It's the first picture Quinn can remember being in that she looks content—genuinely happy. They're both obviously unaware the picture's being taken, gazes locked on each other. Rachel is tucked against her side, fingers playing with Quinn's as a long arm drapes over her shoulder, nose barely an inch from her own. They're laughing and, even still so fresh on her memory, she can't remember the context of the situation, only the feeling of being entirely complacent, Rachel by her side. They look oblivious and perfectly okay with that.

It's a great picture.

"Can you send me this?" She mindlessly asks because, for some odd reason (even though Quinn's never really been the sentimental type) the picture is too much of a heart-warming sight to not reach out towards. Her eyes are soft—gentle—alive—and when she looks back up to the eyes of the father of her best friend, he looks stunned and a little baffled. Captured, almost, like he's just solved a really hard math problem but doesn't agree with the answer. "You have an iphone...you have to have a data plan. Can you just not send it?" His gaze unsettles her, a little. It's not malicious just...odd. It feels threatening in a way she can't place. She worries, for a moment, that he knows and isn't quite alright with it, though she's not sure how he _couldn't _know, anyways. "Was that...too much to ask, or something?"

He just stares, for a moment, before he shakes his head, "No...it's not." He places his hand in a puddle of water but doesn't seem to notice, fingers sliding against his counter. "Do you have a cousin?"

This question, of course, entirely throws Quinn off-balance. "Yeah." She tries to piece his logic together. "Did you want me to...bring them, or something? Expected more of a turn-out?" She doesn't know _why _since Rachel _just _invited her and her mother.

"Are they your age?" His eyes are still searching hers, enthralled, and Quinn awkwardly shuffles on her feet, looking away.

"No. I have three: two boys and a girl. Steve, Mark, and Lily. She's..." She sort of feels like a jerk for not knowing this, "Seven? I think?" She shrugs. "I'm not close with my dad's side of the family." It's true. "The guys are," Bitches, honestly, but she doesn't _say _that part, "In their mid-twenties." She thinks for a moment. "Well, okay, I'm not really close with my _mom_'s side of the family, either." At this she looks over her shoulder, expecting Judy to scowl at her, and lets out a sigh of relief when she's not there. "But don't tell _her _that..."

"Oh." Is all Hiram says, still staring at her.

There's a long awkward moment of silence.

"Okay, Mr. Berry, you're kind of starting to freak me out." She meekly admits, not comfortable with admitting much of anything to adults, but she _likes _Hiram, so she tries.

He instantly blinks and pulls back, rubbing his hand against his neck, "Oh, I'm sorry, Quinn." He looks back into her eyes and lingers, for a moment, "It's just that your eyes..." He mumbles, like he's trying to place something.

"My...eyes?" She reflexively lifts her hand up to them. "I'm wearing my contacts—did one slip?"

"No you just..." He sighs, long-windedly, pulling away entirely and focusing on the few dishes left in the sink. "They just looked...You reminded me of—"

"Uh-oh," Leroy cuts in from the archway, "I think you've enchanted my husband with your gorgeous eyes, Quinn." He slips inside and grabs a piece of turkey, throwing it into his mouth with little aplomb, leaning against the counter with a tired smile. "They are very pretty, by the way." He notes and Quinn can't help but blush.

"Yep. Striking eyes." Hiram chuckles, seeming a bit more his old self, though he looks a little distracted for a moment before shaking his head and turning fully, smiling widely at his husband. "Game over?"

"Yes," Leroy huffs, morose, "They _lost_. And _your _daughter," He points, scolding, at Hiram, "And _your _mother," Once more accusingly at Quinn, "Are out in the living room _high-fiving_." This is apparently the worst thing on the face of the planet, the way Leroy says it, and Quinn can't help but lean around the side to see her mother and her best friend doing just that.

Only they're both kind of victory dancing on top of it. It's probably the most endearing sight she's ever seen.

"Yeah, they're soul-mates." She laughs good-naturedly, picking back up the last dish to dry and doing it without looking down. Waitressing is a good skill-set for _some _things.

"Yeah, well, with the way you wash dishes, Quinn, you can be my new soul-mate." Hiram grumbles, back to his old self, smile kind and in place. It eases the tension that had spread throughout the blonde's spine. She smiles back.

"Hey, no return policy." Leroy pouts and Quinn puts up the last dish, looking proudly around the kitchen before high-fiving Hiram. "Oh my God, people are high-fiving _everywhere_. Stop it. By the way, Ryan called and he wished everyone a happy, happy Thanksgiving."

"He's probably eating a _real _turkey." Hiram murmurs and Leroy flicks his ear.

"Heard that."

Five seconds later Quinn steps out into the living room only to be super-hugged by a small bundle of energy and high-fived (seriously, high-fived) by her happy and sober mother whose eyes are brighter than she's ever seen them. The rest of the night is one of the best Quinn can remember, all of them laughing and eating even _more _and joking.

Rachel gets whipped cream on her nose from the apple pie and everyone at the dinner table makes a silent pact not to tell her so, naturally, right when the Fabray's leave, Quinn gets to see her screech about whipped cream being on her nose for the past hour.

"Seriously, why didn't any of you _tell _me?" It doesn't help that they're all shamelessly laughing until there's tears in their eyes. The scandalized finger thrown Judy's face is probably the best because the claim of, "I thought we were _soul-mates!" _just makes all of them laugh harder, even Rachel, who tries so hard not to.

Right before Quinn goes to bed she gets three picture messages—one from each of the Berry's. One is a picture of Rachel and Judy high-fiving from Leroy; the second is a picture of Quinn with a piece of tofurkey in her mouth from Rachel; and the third is the same picture she asked Hiram about earlier in the night, from, of course, Hiram, the text reading only a smilie face. She saves all of them and even makes the background of her phone the one of Rachel and her mother...and makes her facebook profile the one with the tofurkey...but the last one she saves as Rachel's profile picture.

She feels like a bit of a dork for leaving the picture open, smiling at it, for the next ten minutes and even debates sending Rachel the picture, herself, but decides to keep it for just a little while longer.

It's the best Thanksgiving Quinn's ever had, even if it's the least eventful and quietest...but it's also the happiest.

She smiles for the rest of the night and all of the next day and the best part is that Rachel doesn't even ask why.

–

"So..." Ms. Pillsbury _still _hasn't gotten better at bridging the gap between them, despite the fact that Quinn has been seeing her, twice a week, for, like, almost five months, now. She hasn't gotten better at starting conversations, either.

Quinn tries harder, now, to act _better _because she thinks it'll make these end faster and she's not really sure how she feels about the idea of spending all of next year with bi-weekly (ineffective) sessions with this _soft-as-dough _Pillsbury.

(Quinn actually spends a large majority of these sessions thinking of new mental nicknames for her not-therapist. She might not be so _outwardly _scathing towards people, anymore, but inside she can't help but be a nickname-genius/opportunist...she's also just a _little _bitter).

"You punched Finn Hudson." Her tone is almost..._knowing_.

Quinn blinks, having expected the counselor to start with the weather, like she had every other session. Not like she knew what the weather was like, Quinn assumes, because she's never once seen the lady _leave _the school building, even though she's pretty sure she doesn't live here. Regardless, Finn Hudson is old news in Quinn Fabray's mind for several different reasons—punching him feels like it must have been a lifetime ago. Maybe Emma Pillsbury's grapevine isn't nearly as quick as the student body's.

Maybe she's using one of those old-school dial-up phones—probably heard they were less susceptible to germs, or something.

"I...did." Quinn sounds it out like she's not sure what her answer is and Ms. Pillsbury's eyes are wide but there's still this hint of...intuition behind them that makes the ex-cheerleader wary. This seriously happened a _long _time ago. They've had more sessions since the event than Quinn wishes.

"Why did you do that?"

Perfect posture—perfect practice—perfect poise—and the answer comes out like it's been rehearsed even though her stomach is twisting into knots. "I was on my period."

She wonders if people actually _buy _that excuse because, despite Rachel, once she said that pretty much everyone at least stopped asking questions. Even though Santana kind of made a Facebook fanpage devoted to "Fabray kicking Hudson's Ass". Quinn's not sure how it ended up with 5,013 fans (seriously).

She's also a little unnerved that there's _video _of it because Coach installed video cameras in front of every trophy case to make sure no one tried to steal them (they also have automatic tazer guns installed in two of the dud trophies; Quinn knows this because she was the one that installed them).

She tried not to smile when Rachel was the first fan.

(She also might have slunk away one game night to show Hiram and Leroy the video...and they both totally high-fived her. Adults apparently like Finn Hudson as much as she does).

"Quinn..." The pseudo-therapist actually sounds strained. "You do realize that I can't help you with your problems if you don't _let _me help, right?" Quinn's smile actually falters and she silently curses herself.

She's not sure what help Emma Pillsbury will be; she's not even sure what help she _needs_. She's been fine, so far. Life is quiet and long and hard, but it's still life—she's still living—and she thinks maybe it's at least _easier _without her father. It's easier being in an apartment she has to pay for than being in a car. It's easier eating lunch for one with Rachel than it is lunch for two alone. She's not sure what Ms. Pillsbury can even do. There's nothing to fix.

All she has for her time are a stack of pamphlets, a lecture on how needles were unclean and the use of them could procure several STDs (cocaine is apparently done through needle, now...Quinn had internally laughed at that one) and other diseases, and wasted time that she could have been spent working at Lesley's or rehearsing for Regionals or even just watching movies with Rachel.

"What if I don't have problems?" She asks before she can think and blinks at herself. Ms. Pillsbury blinks right back, like she thought that earlier tactic wouldn't work—Quinn didn't think it _had_. Either way, she's said it, so she might as well continue and explain. "I appreciate you..." She hesitates, "Caring." It doesn't sound right to her ears. "Or whatever, but I'm fine. I don't understand why I have to keep coming here—"

"Because you're a sixteen year old girl whose father just died after she gave birth to a little girl that she gave up for adoption, just punched her ex-boyfriend, and is apparently under the influence of drugs." Emma Pillsbury actually sounds...authoritative...and Quinn's voice catches, soundless for a moment. "I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with you, Quinn, but no one goes through all of that and doesn't need to talk."

She's floored—baffled—and then she's inexplicably angry.

"What, so you think _you're _the expert on what I should be feeling? Maybe I don't _feel _like talking. Maybe I don't _feel—_" She freezes for a moment, thoughts and mind and heart clenching and twirling and coming to a stop. She lowers her voice, eyes turning away from those doe—_dough—_eyes and settling on the wall of pamphlets to her right. "Maybe I don't feel like talking." She rectifies.

She doesn't dare look up; doesn't dare display the small unsettled part of her that her fingers rub up her shoulders. She's cold and she's tired and she has to go to work, right after this. Her mother will be home, tonight, and she promised that she'd make it back by eleven so that they could have dinner, together. Judy had joked that they'd be a Brazilian family but the fact still stood that she called them a _family _and Quinn just wants to get out of here.

"Quinn," Pillsbury's hesitance when dealing with _anything _is showing, and Quinn, ever the opportunist, stands up.

"I don't need therapy." She states with a surety that everything in her life actually lacks.

"Well, you do need me to sign your clearance before you can graduate." Ms. Pillsbury sounds sort of scared while she says this, like she doesn't feel like she should threaten students and Quinn's jaw slips. Maybe not-having-sex isn't the only thing Emma Pillsbury and William Schuester discuss over lunch, because the counselor would never use this tactic on her own volition.

Quinn looks back down at the seat and then back at Ms. Pillsbury.

If she doesn't graduate she can't go to college; If she doesn't leave for college, she can't leave Lima; If she doesn't leave Lima she'll be stuck being a waitress for the rest of her life.

That's something Quinn doesn't let herself think of, nowadays (not that she was too keen of the topic, before): the future.

Her heart blooms for a moment and, just for a second—a brief, _brief _second—she imagines watching Rachel blow away Broadway like she's destined to.

It's something Quinn's resigned herself to never having.

Without another word, she turns around and leaves a flustered Emma Pillsbury's office, slamming the door as she leaves. Her back makes a similar sound as it slaps against the closed door, her hand raising to hide her face from the empty hallway, fingers pinching at her temple.

"Quinn?" Rachel, of course, has a habit for showing up every moment the blonde swears she doesn't need her.

"What?" Quinn snaps, reflexively, and then softens when she opens her eyes to see Rachel walking towards her from around the corner. "Hey."

"Are you done early?" The brunette—still ever the friend-extraordinaire—kind of creepily (and freakishly endearingly) knows Quinn's schedule...more than her own mother does. She's halfway down the hallway, a tentative smile on her face, when another voice rudely interrupts and makes the blonde's whole body stiffen like a pole.

"Fabray! My office! Now!"

When Coach Sylvester calls someone into their office, they don't just go, they scramble, and Quinn sighs and sends Rachel an apologetic look before silently shuffling into her ex-mentor's office. When the door slams, she feels like it might be a little eerily symbolic, somehow.

–

"It's a simple choice: be a loser or be a winner. It's not much of a choice, but if there's anything my excellent years of teaching has provided as fruits from its supple and lean loins, it is that squabbling teenagers like having the feeling of non-existent choices." Sue Sylvester's characteristically _caring _(not) voice is lost somewhere before meeting Quinn's ears because all she can think is...

"I...you want me to..." Something has seriously short-circuited in Quinn's brain. Speech—gone. Thought processing—gone. "You're _asking _me to be Head Cheerleader?"

It must be the twilight zone. Coach Sylvester doesn't ask anyone _anything, _she demands it. She told the police force, last year, they were going to be their backup dancers in their second number for Nationals and they _were_. Quinn's even pretty sure Sue Sylvester demanded to be materialized from God (probably because she was sent, as she claimed once, to make all of 'you blubbering idiot hormone-driven teenagers shut up and win').

Sue Sylvester, for her part, looks bored and ferocious. "I was watching practice effectively masquerade as the world's most mundane and ineffective routine, yesterday, and I thought to myself—Sue, you've got a predicament, here. We need to win 's the thrill—where's the purpose—where's the fire? This pathetic excuse for jugglers throwing pinatas around this football field will not win Nationals. So I took my energized beverage back to my office and wondered what this team lacked." Coach leans forward, eyes slitting and emotionless, but a frightening twinkle itching the right side of her lip upwards. "It lacks drive, motivation, and good structure and leadership."

Quinn clears her throat, back still straight, voice cautious but harder than it would be when dealing with other teachers. Sue Sylvester has always thought a cool voice meant a cool head. "You're an excellent leader, Coach." She is. Sue Sylvester is many things—bat-shit insane, daughter of a Nazi hunter, tough-as-nails, and a fantastic salsa dancer (Quinn kind of wishes she doesn't know that one)—but excellent leader makes the top of that list.

That incident with the tiger notwithstanding.

"Of course I am." The older woman instantly dismisses. "But, like a pack of hyenas, teenage girls will devour their leader if they are not effective and will all become slovenly janitors who mop up the ground that the winning team's trophy stands on." Quinn watched a documentary on hyenas on Animal Planet last year in the hospital and she doesn't really remember that part. "My squad lacks perfection, Quinn."

"You've heard the rumors." Hell, Quinn wouldn't be surprised if Sylvester _started _some of them. "I'm far from perfection. I'm not perfect, anymore."

"There was a rumor last week that I was part bear. Despite some rumors, like the one I just mentioned, being entirely true, the majority of the tales idiotic children spin in between classrooms are ridiculous and entirely unfounded." The woman-part-bear leans back in her chair, taking a swig of her Sue-Sylvester (patented) concoction, eyes roaming Quinn's face. "Besides, I've always wanted to punch Franken-teen right in his face, too. That just solidified my decision."

"Santana won Nationals, last year." She instantly protests, fingers clenching on top of her knees.

"By the skin of her teeth and don't think I haven't noticed her...augmentations...and inappropriate use of fat cells that should be going into her facial structure in order to limit the display of human characteristics." Quinn, torn between realizing just how little sense her ex-coach makes in conversation, and feeling somewhat scandalized for her friend, isn't sure what to say. Sue leans across the desk, arms crossed and fingers tenting. "Arms heal." Quinn stiffens in her chair and the older woman nods towards her. "But you can't learn your drive. You're a winner. You're more than this, Fabray. Act like it."

So she sits and thinks about it, for a moment; she thinks about what it was like—what it would mean.

She thinks of being Head Cheerleader, again. She thinks of what it meant, walking down the hallways and feeling noticed and revered and _feared_. She thinks, for a moment, how proud her mom might look and about a father's day picture on a bedside table. She thinks about _cheerleading _which is actually something she's _good _at and something she really, really enjoys. She thinks that, even with a broken arm in a sling and sweat down her brow, every single member of her team looked proud and accomplished and _honored_ to have her as captain.

She thinks about quitting her job and being a kid, again, being a regular teenager who doesn't have to _think, _anymore. She thinks about the scholarships that being a cheerleader could provide—thinks about having _options—_and knows, for a moment, that she might have a future if she takes it. If she just accepts.

She can quit Lesley's (managing Glee with a practically-full-time job is nearly impossible enough). Her mom can just get a better job and _this _will pay for college. She can still have lunches with Rachel and maybe even get sleep now that she doesn't work through it. She can make it so that no one ever slushies Rachel ever again.

And then she thinks about Santana.

She would have to push Santana off of the top of the pyramid to gain this power that isn't rightfully hers.

She thinks about that word—_power—_and realizes something she hasn't until this very moment. It isn't _about _power. It _isn't _power. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want any of it. She _can't_.

She doesn't want Santana to have to fall for her to succeed. She's not kidding herself—she would never be able to have lunch with Rachel ever again if she was a Cheerio, simply because she'd be practicing most lunches. They'd never make rent, and what then? What would they do, then?

The shelter, again? Maybe _this _time they'd move out to Washington with Lauren, but Judy Fabray has too much pride, for that, still, and Lauren doesn't even remember she _has _family.

Maybe if she quits Glee, then she could work and cheer. Maybe then she'd have options—a future—maybe then she'd have a _purpose_, again.

She thinks of Rachel, hand outstretched, singing to her. She thinks of Ricky and Cindy. She thinks of her mom, falling asleep at the table and their Brazilian dinner, tonight.

She thinks of Santana and how she looked when she said she was proud of her.

"What?" Sue Sylvester actually sounds surprised—it's the first emotion Quinn's heard from her all year.

"No." Quinn repeats, surer, eyes set and on fire. "Santana is a fantastic Head Cheerio and I don't _want _it."

No one turns down Sue Sylvester so it's kind of a shock when, instead of throwing a fit, Coach does something Quinn's never seen her do without malicious intent: She smiles.

Sue Sylvester just smiles at Quinn Fabray like _that's _what she wanted, maybe, all along.

And then she just barks for blondie to get out before she has to throw her out.

Quinn leaves the office feeling like maybe the door didn't slam, it just creaked a little along the way to opening.

And she feels...she _feels_...

Proud.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **14/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N**: Oh, ye ole' important subtle-character development chapters. How silly you are.

* * *

><p>"She...<em>asked <em>you?"

"I _know_." Quinn agrees, twirling her necklace in restless fingers as she leans forward on the bar, a yawn leaving her lips. "That's what I said."

"I just...I can't believe that Sue Sylvester actually..._asked _you to be Head Cheerleader, again." Rachel sounds pretty much how Quinn felt. She wouldn't be surprised if the brunette's brain has exploded.

"I know." There's not really much else that Quinn can say save for that. There's a long pause where the blonde just sighs, still sort of reveling in the thought, before Rachel bursts across the line.

"_Well_?" Rachel's not the most patient person in the world. Quinn blinks.

"Well, what? Hang on." She leans back when a the door opens to see that it's just Caitlyn returning from a smoke break and relaxes. "Well, what?" She repeats.

"Well—what did you _say_?" Rachel sounds almost anxious across the line and Quinn stiffens. For some odd reason, she had just assumed her best friend would instantly know her answer, but realizes not all things about Quinn Fabray are obvious, nowadays. It's kind of a sickening thought to realize that, a year ago, she would have cast Santana aside without a second thought. It's also kind of a revelation to know how _different _she is from last year. She's not sure how she feels about that.

This whole time she's figured she's just done everything the opposite of what her father would want—sort of a rebellious streak in the ever-after years—but she's suddenly realizing that it's actually _her _that's different, not just her actions.

"I said no." Quinn's fingers move from her necklace to scuff on the wood of the bar, eyes unfocused.

"You...you said no?" Rachel sounds entirely unprepared for this and Quinn feels a dull pain in the back of her throat. Her best friend sounds as short-circuited as she did when thrown off about Coach's mannerisms and the blonde feels listless.

"Of course I said no." It comes out as a frustrated whisper, fingernails scraping. She offers a small amount of reasoning. "Santana..." Her voice catches, like she shouldn't be saying _this_ outloud, and tries something else. She might be different but she's not _that _different. "I don't have the time."

There's another pause before Rachel's voice, surprisingly soft and clear, breathes across the phone, a revelation of Quinn's intentions, "Santana's head cheerleader."

Quinn shrugs, her stomach clenching, "We have to pay rent and I'd have to quit Glee and I have _responsibilities_. I made commitments and—" They're all more excuses than reasons and she sighs when she can _feel _Rachel's soft smile across the phone.

"Santana's head Cheerleader." Rachel says clear as day and Quinn's sigh is frustrated.

"It's not like that." She insists.

"Of course." Rachel's voice is soft—almost...loving—and the feeling of warmth that slowly fills her is as unnerving as it is comforting.

"Stop that." She grumbles. Stop _which_, specifically, she's not sure.

"Stop what?" Every time Rachel talks, that infuriatingly soft smile is just more evident and Quinn can just imagine her sitting on her bed in her pajamas, lips gently curling and eyes gentle.

"Stop smiling like that."

"I'm not." She instantly replies, but a laugh has replaced the smile and Quinn just rolls her eyes.

"It's annoying."

It's kind of crazy that Quinn knows exactly what Rachel's doing just by listening to her voice. Maybe they really are best friends—maybe they talk _too much_ on the phone—and the thought can't help but pull something in the blonde. They don't talk enough, really, in her opinion.

Rachel's surprisingly pretty good at keeping Quinn not-bored and it's a nice thing to have at work...and school...and home.

"You're smiling, too." Her friend points out and the blonde shuffles, palm fully pressing down onto the wood, ducking her head. She can't help it—Rachel's smile is infectious, even miles away. A moment later, the smile slips as her tone turns cautiously professional, "So are you going to _tell _her?"

Quinn shakes her head before she realizes the brunette isn't actually next to her. "No. She doesn't need to know. They have competition, too, next week, I don't want to put any more stress on her than she already has." Quinn rolls her neck, looking around the bar before she leans around and catches Ricky's smiling eyes, his chin tilting towards her in a silent agreement. "I actually think I have to go."

"You're not _still _working—"

"Oh, no, I just got off. I'm going home." Rachel called luckily right after she got off of work to rant about Finn showing up outside of her house to sing her _another _(stupid) love song. Once Quinn had admitted that Finn's poor choice in love songs had been the _real _reason she got kicked out, last year, she had unwillingly spawned a thirty minute rant about the necessity of careful planning and importance of suitable song choice. Needless to say, Rachel Berry had been irate at Finn Hudson.

It might have not helped that Finn had trampled all over her self-grown garden (vegans need vegetables fresh, Quinn!) with his, quote, _gargantuan feet_.

The bar was pretty empty so Ricky had actually welcomed Quinn sitting inside to talk to her friend—he'd even joked that he liked his girls where they're supposed to be: inside, not on the streets—and it's not like the blonde had anything to go home to, since her mom had regretfully canceled their Brazilian-dinner family night thing.

She picked up a double-shift, though, so Quinn can't really blame her.

"Are you alright to drive?" Rachel, ever cautious and caring, brings Quinn back to the topic at hand.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." She shrugs back on her jacket, eying the clock, mumbling to herself, "Maybe McDonald's is still open." The very idea of actually eating in that fat and carbohydrate-filled cesspool makes Quinn's skill crawl.

"You haven't eaten?" Rachel, of course, sounds scandalized. "Quinn! Your dietary schedule needs serious ramification—do you know how much your ridiculous desire to off-set your metabolism is affecting your body?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. It would be really, really annoying if it wasn't so sickeningly sweet. "Yes, yes, you chastising me isn't going to fix it, Rachel."

"But perhaps me _chastising _you, Quinn Fabray, will help to make sure that this situation never occurs again." Quinn's pretty sure Rachel's pouting into the phone. "Stop that." She groans.

"Stop what?"

"Smiling like that when I'm mad at you." Rachel grumbles across the phone and Quinn's eyes widen as she realizes she's _totally _smiling. "It's infuriating. You're not the _only _one that can tell when someone's smiling over the phone."

Quinn shrugs her shoulders and decides not to dwell on it. "I'm gonna walk to my car so I've got to—"

"Don't hang up!" Rachel yelps and Quinn pulls the phone away for a second, utterly confused. "I mean...you..." She clears her throat. Quinn can hear loud shuffling in the background and a large slam. Before she can ask what the brunette's doing, she continues, "You shouldn't walk alone at this hour, Quinn, especially not in...that area. If I cannot physically accompany you, then please allow me to be there in spirit."

Quinn chuckles, waving goodbye to Ricky and Caitlyn before starting out the door. "Alright, then." She makes it half-way in total silence, smile wide, before she notes, "You do realize this only works if you _talk _right?" There's more noise in the background.

"Right, sorry." Rachel stills whatever it is that she's doing, her voice holding a hint of shyness that's covered by her sincerity, "I was just attempting to pull out the leftovers from tonight's dinner so that you might have something to eat without spending money on food that will only shorten your lifespan."

Quinn stops in her tracks, soft, "You don't have to do that."

"I insist." That smile's back, again.

"I can just stop and get fast food, or something, Rach." Quinn shuffles her feet before she realizes she's stopped and starts resuming her walk to her car, stride slower. "It's too much on you."

"Nonsense, Quinn, don't be silly." Rachel resumes whatever it is she's doing in the kitchen, but it's quieter, now. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't do my best to ensure your health and safety?"

"A sane one?" Quinn guesses, and Rachel dryly laughs across the line. "It's a school night." She remembers those olden days when that thought used to shake Rachel's framework.

"That just means I can rest easy knowing you will eat both dinner _and _breakfast at decent, regular intervals. Lunch, too, if you count tomorrow. They'll also be healthy meals that entirely satisfy the requirements of your rigorous lifestyle." Rachel's perky tone is a little too victorious but it still eases the knot that had settled in Quinn's stomach since she heard her mother's regretful voicemail, earlier.

"Your dads won't mind?" It's her last line of defense.

"Of course not. They've been—unnecessarily, might I add—in love with you since you punched Finn Hudson. It's a little distressing that they've only just decided to tell me how much they did not like him, regardless of our previous relationship's length. I _know _you showed them that video, by the way. It's on Daddy's favorite list on his youtube channel." Quinn likes Hiram and Leroy; they think on the same wavelength she does, sometimes.

Quinn bites her lip. She feels like she shouldn't be allowed to do this—not when she has to work so much and rehearse so much and pretend so much—but the thought of it makes her smile and the waitress has never been one to turn down an opportunity. Or, more recently, free food.

Or Rachel, for that matter.

"Alright." Quinn opens the door to her car and slips in.

"Really?" Rachel sounds surprised. "Are you in your car?"

"Yeah."

"Don't text and drive."

Quinn's eyes roll on their own account. "Yes, thank you, forgot that was a bad idea." She softens her tone. "See you in thirty."

She swears she can hear Rachel's smile through the phone. It's seriously annoying.

–

"You have to open up to _someone_, Quinn." Rachel tries again, scooting closer, tucking a strand of long blonde behind an attentive ear. Leftovers are sprawled across the kitchen and they're sprawled out on the floor, in front of the couch. "Ms. Pillsbury is certainly certified to deal with your problems."

Quinn, for some reason, doesn't like the way that sentence comes across—like she has all of these things to _deal _with. To put up with. To change. To fix. "I'm fine."

"You're _not_."

"I open up to _you_, don't I?"

A point should never be made so easily and should never be so hard to refute. Rachel just sighs and pushes her nose into the crook of Quinn's neck and the taller of the two hates herself, just a little, for always being such a good lawyer. It's in the genes.

She leans back and Rachel moves with her, settling on top of her, lips skimming over the pulse of her neck in a way they really shouldn't. They lay there, tangled, chests rising and falling.

Rachel's _I love you _of the night is mumbled against Quinn's neck and she's positive that's the way she likes it, best, even though she's too scared to like it at all.

–

They're sitting in the Berry basement at 3 AM because Rachel claims she can't sleep, but Quinn knows it doesn't really have much to do with Rachel at all. She's sitting at the piano, half a plate of heated-up left overs by her side, when she starts playing for no reason at all.

Rachel stops and stares mid-exhausted rant.

Her fingers slide over the keys with no thought or matter, playing a song she remembers her father playing when she was little and used to ask him to play before _she _learned how to play, herself.

"You...Quinn!" Rachel sounds scandalized when she stops for a rest, and Quinn turns to look at her, blinking. "You never told me you played!"

"Oh." Her shoulders roll as she allows herself to slouch, posture previously perfect, as she turns to look at her best friend. Rachel actually looks offended and she's, honestly, confused, "...sorry?" Rachel huffs and stands up, walking over with a look of fire in her eyes.

"You're _good_." She points out, tone vicious and Quinn's confusion doesn't dull in the slightest.

"I...thank you?" She closes the cover, giving her psychotic friend her full attention. "Why do you sound so pissed about that?"

"Because I never thought you were particularly talented in _any _area of music!" Rachel pulls out like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Okay, _oww_." Quinn mumbles, turning away. Rachel, as callous as she is sometimes, doesn't notice.

"Do you not understand what musical compatibility means, Quinn?" Rachel asks, still obviously annoyed, "It means I'm not _crazy_."

The blonde feels like this might be the time to start tuning her out, now.

"O...kaaaay."

Rachel huffs and sits down at the bench, next to her, flipping open the key cover and pointing down. "Play me something."

"Uh, not after you just _insulted _me, no." Quinn crosses her arms and quirks an eyebrow. Rachel looks properly mollified after this. She visibly thinks over what she's said in the last minute and her mouth forms a silent _O_.

"Perhaps that did not sound the most complimentary..."

"Ya _think_? So observant." Quinn dryly murmurs but Rachel's soft hand on her upper arm calms her slightly.

"I'm sorry." She sounds sincere enough. "Just...play me the first thing that comes to mind. Just play me something." And so Quinn finds her fingers moving over the keys, eyes closing.

B minor is where her fingers first hit. Widnung.

A couple of bars before she stops and looks over at Rachel whose gaze is so soft—so enthralled—that she finds herself once more closing her eyes and, for the first time since she was fifteen...just...playing. She hasn't played for nearly two years now—save for a couple of quiet moments in the auditorium when Rachel was in the bathroom—because she couldn't carry the piano when she only had fifteen minutes and they obviously don't own one now.

Her lips curve for a moment.

B minor, D major, F sharp major—

She moves to play another D when her eyes open in surprise because she hears a B played on the small part of the piano. She turns to Rachel who offers her a shy smile. She scoots over a little and Rachel raises both of her hands and Quinn can't help but do the same.

It takes them a couple of hit and misses, the first few chords, but Quinn finds herself continuing on and, soon, Rachel understands her key flow and the next thing she knows, they're writing a double-piano piece by the seat of their hands. Literally.

It's a little sloppy, but Quinn's right hand moves out a melodic line as Rachel's moves up, wordlessly, to meet her harmony, and then the brunette stops, a soft laugh on her lips.

"We're making music." She says, breath a content wisp and Quinn looks over at her and lets out a small laugh of her own.

"Yeah." Their hands link. "We are."

–

"Do a duet with me."

It's the tenth time in a row she's asked the question. Quinn flips the page in her book, not looking up, eyes straight down and face impassive.

"No."

"Do a duet with me."

"No."

"Do a duet with me."

"No."

"Do a duet—"

"Oh my _God_, would you _both _just shut up already?" Puck finally screams, slamming down his tuna sandwich and glaring at both of them through slit eyes.

Rachel looks between Quinn and Puck, down at her wrap, before opening her mouth.

"No." Quinn cuts her off, flipping to the next page.

Rachel stamps her foot, and stands up, glaring at Quinn for a good minute before growling and walking to the piano.

"Is she always like this?" Puck leans over, eyes a little scared and lips thin.

Quinn shrugs, "Only when she doesn't get her _way_." She sings and Rachel lets out a yell of frustration that only proves to make the blonde smile.

–

It's almost four and a half months after her father's...since almost after school's started, that Quinn's resting with her head on Rachel's thighs, her own legs dangling from the brunette's bed. Her earphones are plugged into her ears, a soft humming melody floating about as she just relaxes.

"Huh." Rachel's voice sounds perplexed, her eyebrows furrowing and her fingers have stopped tapping at the keyboard she's been staring at for the past thirty minutes. She's supposed to be writing a paper but Quinn highly doubts she actually is—Rachel might be a go-getter, but she's still a human being (a teenager, at that) and it takes some time for her to do _anything _academic after a long day of school—she leans up and pulls an earbud out. "I've been stumbling—"

Quinn finds it kind of hilarious that Fergie is doing the same thing on the other side of her ear, _Clumsy _playing in a shameless display of her love for pop music. She nods, motioning for her friend to continue.

"Did you know that, apparently, based on a psychological study, a crush only lasts for a maximum of 4 months?" There's something weird in Rachel's words, like she doesn't want it to be _true—_like she has some application of this knowledge for her life—and Quinn's lips straighten. She turns the computer towards her, her own eyebrows furrowing.

"If it exceeds...you're in love." She sounds skeptical because she _is_. It's stumbled to some random blog in the middle of bum-hick web-space and the blonde highly doubts the validity of the statement.

"I'd like to see their sources." Rachel's nervous laughter makes Quinn turn back to meet peculiar dark eyes. She tries to smile.

Quinn clears her throat and lays back on Rachel's thighs, a nervousness in her stomach as her eyes scan the ceiling.

_Clumsy cause I'm fallin' in love—in lo—_

Quinn quickly skips to the next song, her face blanching.

Fergie's so over-rated, anyways.

–

Working's easier than expected. Getting along with her mother was never, actually, expected. Getting A's, in school, is expected. Rachel?

Rachel's not really expected. Quinn's not stupid. She's never been stupid. Rachel's not expected and Quinn shouldn't...she _shouldn't..._

Quinn goes out of her way to see her, anyways.

–

Quinn quirks her eyebrow in a way that shows her obvious disinterest.

"You dragged me in here to sing about _headbands_." She dead-pans, giving Rachel a look. Since her break-up with Finn, her friend's spent a large majority of her time—and anxious aggression—throwing herself into a "creative surprise" that she refused to disclose to Quinn until it was ready. Apparently, the surprise was a really..._bad _song. She's generally gentle with Rachel, especially given the break-up and everything, but it's been long enough, and Quinn doesn't think that putting up with _this _is in the best friend contract.

"Well...I..." Rachel's nervously clasping her hands, biting her lip. "Yes?"

"Right." Quinn scans the brunette up and down before she stands up. "I'm outta here."

"Quinn," Rachel whines, grabbing her elbow before she can leave, "If you don't give me constructive criticism, I'll never improve."

"Okay." She crosses her arms, pretends to think about it, and nods. "Don't sing about something stupid."

"Quinn." It's more of a huff, this time, and Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Seriously, Rachel. The actual _music _rocks—I'm impressed with your musical writing; it's solid—but the lyrics? They really, really suck."

Rachel pouts. "I like headbands."

"Headbands don't mean anything, Rachel." Quinn shakes her head. "If you want anyone to care about what you're singing about, maybe _you _should try caring about it, too. The whole point of this," She flourishes her hand mindlessly about, gesturing, "Was to use your pain, or whatever, to your creative advantage, right?"

"Well...yes."

Quinn gives her a pointed look before she once more turns to walk away and Rachel halts her again. "Quinn!" Rachel's eyes look conflicted, like she's about to ask more or maybe—a thought that makes Quinn's stomach roll—she's about to actually tell Quinn what it is she cares so much about. Rachel inevitably closes her mouth and shakes her head, a blindly false smile slipping across her lips. "Thank you very much for your constructive input."

Instead of calling her out, Quinn just smiles back and leaves, rolling her eyes as soon as she walks out the door because—seriously—Rachel's awesome but _sometimes_? Well, sometimes she writes songs about headbands.

Quinn can only pray the next song's better.

–

The next day when she walks through the doorway of the choir room, Rachel tugging at her elbow, and sees Brittany on one side of the room staring at her shoes and Santana, on the other side, with her arms crossed and eyes staring resolutely at the wall to her right, Quinn Fabray makes a decision.

"What?" Rachel leans forward and mumbles into her ear, noticing her friend's stopped. She just shakes her head.

"Nothing." That's what the Latina at the other edge of the room would probably say, if pressed. Her lips thin.

The first person Quinn invited to her house was Rachel; the second person Quinn invites to her house is Puck; the third is _almost_ Santana, but she thinks better of it, inviting her to a diner in Troy instead. She misses her sullen friend and has noticed that, lately, she's been pushing herself away from Brittany, eyes nervous and fluttering any time anyone would look at her.

It makes the blonde gulp because Santana should never be fluttering _or _nervous.

It's nauseating and disorienting, really. Quinn doesn't like nauseating _or _disorienting.

It's time to fix things.

So when they're sitting down and order two waters, Quinn abruptly attacks her with it, concern lacing her rough tone. "So what's going on with you and Brittany?" The way Santana whips her head around the diner to make sure that no one's looking makes Quinn's eye twitch. "I dragged you an hour away so that you wouldn't _have _to worry about that."

"Nothing's going on with—"

"Don't bullshit me." It's very rare Quinn curses and Santana knows it. It instantly makes her friend still and give her a guilty look. If Santana caves this easily, Quinn knows it's something big, so she eases her tone. "We're friends, Santana." They might not have the close relationship like her and Rachel were quickly developing, but Quinn wants Santana to know that she'll be there for her.

"I don't know." Such a quiet, soft, _scared _response makes Quinn rock on her heels and lean closer. She gently lays her hand over Santana's and, while the darker girl tenses under it for a moment, it's a true testament that she inevitably twists around and openly takes the comfort.

"I always thought you two were..."

"What makes you think we were—" It's more frightened than outraged, and it annoys Quinn to think her friend is this scared of herself. It reminds her too much of a little girl trying to piece back together a popsicle frame.

"Because you love her!" It comes out as cross, but fact, and before Santana can run or, worse, deny it, Quinn continues. "There's nothing wrong with _loving_ someone, San."

There's a long moment of silence. Dark eyes widen, skim, and then settle.

"I always figured you for the homophobic christian type."

"I always figured you for the do-what-you-want and not care what anyone else thinks type." Quinn rebuffs, eyes challenging. "We can all be wrong sometimes." This seems to set a fire under Santana.

"Why do you care?"

"Why do you care so much what people think?"

"Why _don't_ you?" Santana huffs but doesn't remove her hand. "Or do you think we've _all _forgotten bitch-Fabray like Berry seems so easily willing to? Things aren't easy being gay and in Lima." It's obviously the first time Santana's said it out loud but she, surprisingly, sticks behind her guns.

"And you think I don't know what it's like to be leered at?" Quinn can feel a familiar distaste settle in the pit of her stomach."I'm a rumored coke-head who got knocked up when she was 16 and, apparently, started selling my body for money."

"What made you stop caring, Q?" Santana's practically _pleading—_like her catholic-confessional friend might _really _have the answers—and it makes Quinn even more nervous. "I know you. I _know _Coach talked to you about being Head Cheerio. You would have _killed _me, last year, if it meant you were on top."

Quinn freezes, fingers tightening. Santana was never supposed to find out about that.

"_You _won Regionals." She mindlessly consoles and tan arms cross in front of her.

"Damn straight I did—but not the point." Santana's stuck on this and the blonde sighs.

"I lost the reason why I cared what everyone thought to a heart-attack and I..." She stops and thinks—lets herself _actually _think, "...I started caring about what one person thought, instead." Quinn thinks that Santana assumes she means herself when, really, she means Rachel. The thought doesn't lead her to a panic attack like it used to; instead, it comforts her. It settles her.

Santana's looking at her with fear in her eyes, this understandable frenzy clenching at her stomach, and Quinn just squeezes her hand.

"Sometimes," She whispers, eyes dancing, "You have to choose what you want over what other people want you to be. Sometimes you have to _choose _who you are, instead of letting other people turn you into something you're _not_." She bites her lip, trying really, really hard not to mess this up. "You _love _Brittany. I don't know what that makes you—gay, bi, Brittany-centric—but it's a _part _of you, San. It's a part of you and you can deny it all you want, but it will _always _be there." She whispers, gentle. "I've watched you two for _years_. Don't give that up because you're _scared_, San."

"But I don't know how to fight, anymore. I don't know _who _to fight."

"Right now, the only person you're fighting is yourself." Quinn leans back into the chair, eyes skimming a wary face. "And, quite frankly, if you're not willing to _fight _for Brittany...you don't deserve her." Quinn knows the weight of applicability in her words and notes them with a flitting eye.

Santana's eyes register this and her hand goes slack for a moment.

"It's...kind of scary."

"Yeah." She smiles.

Santana pulls her hand away and stares at her plate before she looks up and smirks at Quinn, a hint of bitch back in her voice, tone daring Quinn to hate her for it. "I'm a lesbian."

"Cool." Quinn smirks, pointing down at her plate of food that had slipped down onto the table in the midst of their conversation. "Can I eat, now?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **15/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N**: The song in this is "Leather and Lace" by Stevie Nicks. If you haven't heard it, well then, we're just not friends, anymore.

* * *

><p>One night, curled up on the Fabray couch with a bowl of carrots (because they forgot to buy popcorn when they went grocery shopping) in between them, Rachel sighs when they flip off some stupid episode of some teen soap-opera drama thing that has some kid crying about how his dad beats him too much. Quinn's jaw clenches and her eyes harden and she shakes her head.<p>

"This is just stupid." She grumbles and Rachel catches the remote, giving her a look that makes Quinn's teeth grind even further because her best friend doesn't _know _but the guilt and warning in her stomach make her bite her tongue.

"This is _real, _Quinn. This _happens._" Rachel says, eyes chastising and tips of her brows furrowed. "You shouldn't just dismiss it so—"

"I'm not _dismissing _it. The acting was just horrible." She supplies because, yeah, the acting _was _atrocious but the writing sucked, too. Rachel, however, doesn't have to know this. This line of reasoning seems to appease her and Quinn eventually lets herself calm, continuing her plight of finding something decent to watch on basic cable.

"You know," Rachel whispers after a couple rounds of the same channel, eyes thoughtful and sad, "My Dad?"

"Hiram?" Quinn clarifies just for extra measure.

"Yeah. Back when he was working at Columbus full-time and used to help at the free clinic he...came home with all of these stories, trying to warn me about how dangerous the world was and how the people in it could be so awful—so cruel. He wanted to make sure I'd stay safe, so he'd tell me about the people who got in accidents J-walking so I wouldn't do it, or break-ins so I wouldn't answer the door..."

"Sounds pretty gruesome for a kid." Quinn mumbles. Rachel smiles indulgently—almost fondly—back at the memories for a moment.

"Perhaps, but he never went into detail." She looks off for a moment before brown eyes come back, intense, "When I was a little girl—I don't know how old—he used to tell me about this little girl that came into the free clinic once." Rachel looks, for a moment, like she's not sure how to continue and, as she always tends to fall back on, she settles for being blunt, "Her dad beat her."

Quinn's eyes harden reflexively, staring down at her hands, before she softens them, stomach swirling. "That's awful." She whispers, sympathy sliding through her veins.

"I feel ashamed to not remember her name—to not remember anything about her, really, I was so young and we never met—but I remember the way my dad talked about her. He..." She smiles sadly, shaking her head, "He told me never to judge a person because you never know what's going on in their life. He used to tell me that there's horrible people out there and that I should grow up to be a good one." Quinn's eyes flick over and the sincerity in the depths of Rachel's eyes is daunting. Quinn wonders if maybe this is why Rachel forgave her so easily—or why Rachel (despite her tendency to be a little selfish, sometimes, and send young girls to crackhouses) is always so _good_.

"You did." Quinn's sure of this.

Rachel smiles at her warmly, before continuing, "Whenever I complained about being bullied or my parents would talk about people who were...ignorant," She bites the word, "towards their lifestyle, Dad would always kneel down, hand me a glass of water, and remind me of that little girl—tell me that there are so many people out in the world just like her, who just need someone to _understand_." She bites her lip, tone vulnerable, "I used to wonder what it was like to meet that little girl—I used to want to be her friend just so that she'd _have _one." She laughs a little self-deprecatingly and Quinn's throat closes.

Quinn feels like she could have been that girl—admits, for a moment, that she _was _that girl, even if she wasn't the actual girl—and wishes that she'd known Rachel Barbra Berry when she was so little and scared. She wishes Rachel had taken her hand and promised her it was going to be alright. She wishes Rachel had been her friend, then, and is infinitely happy to know she's her friend, now. The brunette is accomplishing her task, even if she doesn't know it.

The blind moment of trust that Quinn almost succumbs to and tells Rachel some of the darkest things about her life is fleeting because the instant fear settles soon after.

"I think..." Quinn clears her throat, "I think you're a great person Rachel Berry."

Rachel looks taken aback. "For wanting to be her friend?" Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Quinn nods, and then shakes her head, "More like...for caring."

Rachel gives Quinn a long look before she whispers, falling further into Quinn's side, "I was so _young _then and I don't think that I understood...maybe I don't even understand, now, but...I guess..." Rachel lets out a small puff of air. "I guess that it still stuck with me."

Quinn nods.

"So it happens, Quinn. It exists. Some people have it worse than others. I suppose life isn't always fair." Rachel sounds so sad that the little girl in her doesn't even feel the need to be offended, even though Rachel thinks she's preaching to a pulpit when it's really just a choir. She's quiet for a long beat, before she finally admits, "I think the story used to make Dad and Daddy feel better about leaving me alone, all the time." She sounds so uncomfortable. "I know that's so silly, but I couldn't help feeling it."

Quinn pulls back, brushing a strand of hair out of Rachel's eyes so she can see them. "Was it always like this?" The weekend trips—the conferences—the surgeries and the midnight calls and the charity events.

Rachel shrugs.

Yes, then. It always has been.

"I know I don't have it the worst but I..." Rachel's eyes shift and her head ducks, "I know it's _selfish_, but I still wish it was better."

She sounds so small and sad and lonely and Quinn just stares into Rachel's eyes. "It's alright to want that, I think." She tries to smile. "I think the girl would understand. Times are rough all over." She quotes and Rachel looks up disbelievingly towards her. "And I think she'd be lucky to have a friend like you." Finally, she smiles, once more settling and stealing the remote from the taller girl to un-mute the television set.

Quinn stares down at the top of Rachel's head.

Maybe Quinn isn't that same girl...but she still feels like they've both gotten their friends, even if it's years later and different lots in life.

Maybe if Rachel is her friend and it makes her life better—less painful—then...well...maybe she can do the same, for her. For Rachel.

Quinn smiles and settles, feeling purpose for the first time in a long while.

–

The duet competition, unfortunately, put ideas in Rachel's head and, while they are both used to the idea of them being friends, the rest of the school still isn't. For a while, Rachel would continuously mention it and she finally (after throwing two temper tantrums and glaring at Quinn through an hour-long silent treatment) gave up, giving the other girl a false sense of security; However, after finding out about her meeting with Santana, recently, she bugs Quinn all weekend about singing a duet with her and, while the idea makes the blonde a little...excited...it also makes her nervous in a way she can't pin down, so she adamantly refuses.

"Quinn! You're being immature about this." Rachel insists even though _she's _kind of the one whining like a nine year old. "Think about the professional opportunities the wondrous combination of our voices could lead to!"

Quinn is on her fifteen minute break at ten-to-midnight and, really, the brunette should probably be in bed by now; really, in an ideal world, _Quinn _would be in bed by now. "Rach, _no_." She repeats, no room for argument. "I have too much school and too much work—"

"I hate you working there." It's an unexpected growl from the other line and Quinn pulls back to check her caller id, for a moment, to make sure she's still talking to her best friend. "You shouldn't have to work there." There's barely a breath before Rachel has apparently come across a solution, "I know! Quit, do a duet with me, and then become famous and rich. Then you won't _need _to work in that sleazy bar."

Quinn can't help but chuckle at this. "It's not so bad." And it's not. Maybe it's not the most _ideal _place for a girl who should be dreaming about being prom queen to work, but it's better than where she knows some people end up working. The pay is reliable and she doesn't mind the majority of her coworkers. Even the men who end up going to her place as regulars are just lonely and they're all generally...nice.

Unless it's a Saturday.

Then, suddenly, _everyone's _an asshole.

"Yes it is." Rachel's suddenly serious, on the other end of the line. "I don't like you working there, Quinn." They've gotten into this, before, but it's always led to the same place.

Quinn says she'll quit when she gets the money.

She still needs the money.

Idly, Ricky calls around the edge of her phone and Quinn groans, nods, and stands. "I'm not doing the duet with you." She shuts the phone without another word, eyes resolute. She knows Rachel would be pissed if she admitted that she kind of agreed to do another duet, anyways.

–

"Quinn!" Rachel answers the phone, breathless and gasping on the other line.

"What, did you barrel roll to grab the phone?" She quirks an eyebrow.

"Not quite." Is the laugh that comes in response, breath still heavy, "This is actually my break during ballet. We're going long for the Christmas recital. Our tech starts tomorrow." Her voice finally calms down and Quinn gets a brief image of her friend hunched over, hand on her hip and sweat on her neck.

Quinn really misses Rachel. Santana's great—really, she's not even sarcastic about that—but she's starting to drive her _crazy _with her texts.

"Guess that means you're dressed like Sandra Dee, then?" She's referring, of course, to Rachel's infamous play to get (Quinn's then boyfriend) Finn with an outfit that Quinn seriously thought was a myth until she actually _saw _it in Rachel's closet last month. She thought Kurt was just over-exaggerating this whole entire time. Her friend doesn't wear _spandex _to rehearsal, but the outfitting is form-fitting enough.

Rachel huffs, "You know, sometimes I regret becoming your friend because you're _never _going to let that go."

"I never would have let it go, before."

"Yeah, but then I never would have had to _hear _about it." Rachel's smile is obvious through the phone.

"Oh, sweetie," She smiles, "God never forgets fashion sins that big." Rachel scoffs.

"You're horrible. What are you, Kurt?"

"I'm telling him you said that."

"Please _do _because _he _won't let that lapse in judgment go, either, and it was _his _fault." Rachel whines and Quinn just laughs. To be honest, she really wouldn't mind seeing that lapse of judgment, herself, but something tells her that's not the best idea.

"So how's rehearsal going?" She decides to switch topics and the probably-still-sweating girl sighs roughly across the line. Quinn's still confused as to why her best friend is doing a Christmas dance recital when she's, y'know, Jewish, but the other girl always just cracked it up to Show Business.

"It's fine. I'm having trouble with my dismount in our third number, twelfth bar, but other than that it's going swimmingly." Her tone is perky—too perky—and Quinn has the instant impression that she's hiding something from her.

"What is it?" She asks, tone pressing but open.

"Nothing." She deflects.

"Rachel."

"_Nothing_."

"Come on, Rachel, I know you're on break—"

"I was hoping on that, actually." Rachel mopes and Quinn lets out an unamused sigh.

"You're not getting off that easily."

"Obviously."

"Rachel." She snaps.

"Fine, fine." Rachel readjusts the phone, "Hang on." She leaves the busy room she was in and must move outside because the small patter of wind hits against the phone. "You have to promise not to get mad."

Quinn's lips purse. "That's not a good sign."

"Quinn."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever." She reluctantly agrees, rolling her wrist, "Won't get mad—girl scout's honor." Rachel's breath beats against the speaker and Quinn, for a moment, hopes she's wearing a jacket and not actually standing out in the snow in a leotard.

"Jesse's coming to the recital."

Quinn blinks. "Jesse St. James?" She stupidly asks.

"Yes." Rachel murmurs.

This, of course, is utterly unexpected due to Jesse St. James' move to California. Quinn sits up on the bed, scratching at her neck, shuffling her feet.

"Oh." She clears her throat, shaking her head and feeling utterly, ridiculously stupid. "I thought he...I thought he moved to California." She's not sure why she actually _is _fighting down the instant wave of anger that struck her when she heard the familiar name, nor is she sure why Rachel _knew _she would be react this way.

Much more worrying, however, is the instant feeling of disappointment swirling in her stomach. She pushes through it.

"Yes, he's coming back in town for an early break." Rachel clarifies, tone hesitant. "He's an alumni and...well..." She trails off.

"Oh, well." She's at a loss. "That's...nice." She tries.

"Quinn." Rachel sounds strained and Quinn shakes her head.

"What?" She sucks a breath through her teeth and decides that, no, she's not going to pretend to like this, "Okay, _fine_. He's a douchebag, Rachel. He threw _eggs_ at you."

"I know that we were not particularly...good for each other in a relationship, but he is still my friend." Rachel's voice has much less fight in it than the blonde expects.

"Friends don't throw eggs at you." Quinn grits.

"I guess they only throw slushies." Rachel bites and Quinn's lips audibly snap shut, eyes widening. The silence between them is deafening and she's torn between being pissed and utterly, irrevocably hurt...which is stupid because it's _true_. Still, though, Quinn might not be the same person she used to be, but she still can't help but lash out when vulnerable. She never threw a single slushie at Rachel...but the implication still makes her feel like utter shit.

"Whatever, Rachel, don't try to count on me when he—"

"Don't you _dare _finish that sentence, Quinn." Rachel warns, tone knowing and low. "I'm aware what I just said was uncalled for, but it was not an invalid point, nor do you _want _to say something so horribly stupid—because I _know _you, Quinn Fabray, and what you were about to say is going to be absolutely stupid."

Quinn silences and wages a war between her pride and her common sense. "Whatever." She repeats, because it's better than hurting Rachel for no reason.

"You promised you wouldn't get mad." She sounds so disappointed and this, finally, eases Quinn's shoulders.

"I was never very good at being a girlscout." She jokes, tone still a little strained. "I'm sorry I just...I don't..." She sighs.

"I know you're protective of me." Rachel whispers, wind whipping and voice soft, conflicted. "But there are so few people I can count among me as friends, Quinn. I am not the most...agreeable person on the face of the planet."

"That's bull." Quinn murmurs, eyes closed, "You're the best person I know." If she thinks hard enough, she can imagine Rachel's slow smile.

"I have to get back inside." Rachel says and Quinn stares at her ceiling. She hesitates, voice audibly catching, and the blonde waits. "Quinn you...you know I love you, right?" Rachel sounds so small and quiet and Quinn braces herself, taking in a long, slow breath. The way Rachel says it means so much more than it does or should. It's like she doesn't think Quinn really _knows; _it's like this hesitant, worried confession.

Rachel told Jesse she loved him, too.

It's a somewhat fickle and bitter thought that passes through her mind, wondering just how many people Rachel Berry loves in her life.

"Yeah." She replies. "I know, Rach."

"I love you." Rachel repeats and the wind is louder than her voice is but Quinn hears it louder than the gavel in a courtroom. She waits—she _waits—_and Quinn just sits there, frozen, lips parted.

Rachel...Rachel wants her to say it back. She isn't pressuring her to say it. She just wants her to _mean _it. Quinn knows—she knows—and it hurts. It hurts so much.

"I have to go." Rachel's voice sounds scratchy but she hangs up quick.

When Quinn finally drops her phone onto her bed, two minutes later, and miserably stares up at her ceiling, she feels like she's _five _because the first thing she says is the most ridiculous thing on the face of the planet and totally petty, even for her.

"I bet St. stands for _Stupid_."

Jesse..._Stupid_...James.

She's so glad no one was in the room when she said that.

–

Santana's gripping her hand so _tight _that Quinn has to reach back and run her hand through her dark hair. She idly wonders when she became this person—became this girl who punches men for friends and talks to friends and _cares _about friends—but thinks that maybe it's better to be people's shoulder to cry on over being their reason to cry, in the first place.

"It's just us, here, Santana." Quinn says confidently, gesturing towards the whole entire auditorium. She thinks for a moment and gestures backwards towards the man sitting and the piano, "And Brad. But he won't tell anyone, right Brad?"

The man just smiles and wordlessly shakes his head. Quinn often wonders if he's mute.

Santana takes a deep breath in. "This is just _so _gay." She mumbles, a little in shame of what she's about to do just because it's emotional.

"That's the _point_." Quinn drawls. Santana squeezes her hand a little _too _hard and the blonde winces. "Let's just sing it. You'll feel better."

It takes five more minutes of coaching, but Santana finally starts singing, but only with Quinn standing behind her, singing with her.

It takes three more rehearsals of the song until Santana gains her regular confidence back and belts out to the auditorium with her arms stretched wide, tears streaming down her face.

Her performance the next day in Glee is a mix between her first and fifth performance, Quinn holding Santana's hand confidently, an encouraging smile on her face as she plays her back-up.

"Is love so fragile and the heart so hollow to shatter with words...impossible to follow." Quinn starts when Santana freezes, her eyes whipping back to the blonde's for a frightened moment, before she takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes. And sings.

"You're saying I'm fragile—I try not to be. I search only...for something I can't see." Santana's voice shakes, a little, but Quinn walks up behind her and gently places her hands on the other girl's shaking shoulders. Their voices meld together in a soft harmony.

"I have my own life and I am stronger than you know. But I carry this feeling when you walked into my house that you won't be walking through that door." Quinn trails off as Santana's eyes finally open, focusing solely on Brittany's, and the tall blonde lets out a soft sigh of relief.

"Still I carry this feeling when you walked into my house, you were never going to leave." She takes a hesitant step forward, and Quinn smiles as she watches Santana become entangled in her almost-girlfriend's dancing eyes. The blonde sings quietly, knowing now is her time to take the back seat.

"Lovers forever, face to face. My city or mountains stay with me, stay. I need you to love me—I need you, today. Give to me your leather...take from me, my lace." She watches as Brittany hesitantly takes Santana's offered hand as if she's going to yank it away and run. She pulls her up and stares into her eyes.

"You in the moonlight," Santana hums softly, tears falling down her cheeks, a love few hear from her lips open in her voice. Brittany, who rarely cries, laughs through her own. Quinn just smiles. "With your sleepy eyes, could you ever love a woman like me? And you were right. When I walked into your house, I knew I'd never want to leave."

Quinn joins her, once more, as she walks softly up behind them, voice gentle and loving as they switch. "Sometimes I'm a strong woman—"

"Sometimes cold and scared." Santana's hands move up from Brittany's fingers to cup her face, eyes sincere.

"And sometimes I cry." Quinn admits through song.

"But that time I saw you" Santana whispers, tears cracking her voice for barely a moment, but she pushes on and Brittany tangles her fingers in her hair. "I knew it was you that would light my nights. Somehow I'd get by."

"Lovers forever," Quinn's eyes break from Brittany and Santana's for barely a moment to scan over the crowd, taking in the surprised expressions as they both sing. "Face to face. My city or mountains, stay with me stay." She tries to hide her gasp as she finally meets Rachel's tearful gaze on the first row. "I need you to love me—I need you today." Rachel's eyes are unreadable, tears streaming down her face.

"Give me your leather..." Quinn can't look away from her, her gaze is so intense, and she tries to keep singing.

"Take from me, my lace." Santana whispers against Brittany's lips.

"Lovers forever, face to face. My city or mountains, stay with me, stay. I need you to love me—I need you—I need you today." They both whisper, eyes captured.

"Give me your leather—"Santana asks.

"Take from me, my lace." Quinn offers. She finally rips her eyes off of Rachel's, blinking, and Santana seems to think the same thing, because her eyes slowly turn to meet hazel.

"Give me your leather...take from me, my lace." Santana reaches over and squeezes Quinn's hand and offers her a thankful smile. She just nods and the now-confident, but still tearful brunette offers the final verse to what Quinn can only figure is the love of her friend's life.

"Give me your leather..."

The last word is drown out by Brittany's mouth on Santana's and Quinn just shakes her head and laughs, before clapping. Slowly, the rest of the audience follows, Kurt and Tina quickly jumping up to hoot and holler, making Mercedes and Mike follow suit, Puck sneering as Sam shakes his head and happily cheers, and Finn starting to realize what's going on, his large hands hitting slowly. Mr. Schuester is smiling in a way that, for a moment, makes Quinn think he's a good guy, his hands excited. When Quinn finally reaches Rachel's eyes, once more, she notices that she's looking at her with this..._look _that the blonde's never seen before.

As the applause seems to get into her ears, the brunette mindlessly starts to clap, her mouth slightly parted, her gaze unmoving. Even if she's the last to applaud, she's the first to comment, "That was a truly remarkable duet." Her voice is quiet, eyes still on Quinn's, and a pale throat bobs as she gulps.

Before Quinn can say anything, everyone else is jumping up and clapping Santana on the back in a show of support and congratulations, and the blonde turns to congratulate them herself. When she turns back, Rachel's eyes are still on her, this sudden understanding in them, and the small girl excuses herself to the bathroom. Quinn, worried and anxious, quickly follows after her.

Rachel's splashing water onto her face, muttering something to herself that Quinn can't hear but the blatant fear makes it feel too real for either of them to ignore.

"Are you okay, Rach?" Quinn finds herself undeniably concerned, her hand coming to rest on her best friend's shaking shoulder. She's surprised (and, admittedly, a little hurt) when it's shrugged off. "What's wrong?"

"Are you involved in a lesbian tryst with Santana and Brittany?" Rachel accuses, eyebrow raised, and Quinn is floored. She doesn't know where to even _start _with the number of things wrong with that sentence.

"I..._what_? No!" Quinn feels her face flush and thinks that maybe hitting her face with some water wasn't such a bad idea. "Santana just needed some help expressing her feelings. She's not very good at that." Quinn pauses for a moment and her face scrunches. "Though she _did _offer." Rachel ignores this.

"Then why would you sing a duet with _Santana_, but you won't sing one with _me_?" Rachel sounds a little hurt and Quinn blinks, not sure why she's being blind-sided.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I _was _in a lesbian tryst with you." It doesn't come out as harsh or biting—Quinn's just not sure what the _hell's _going on.

There's a long moment of silence, Rachel's whole body stiffening with an emotion and frustration Quinn honestly can't place, tears back in her eyes, and the blonde's confused. She raises her hands to brush away the tears, but a strong hand just bats her hands away, wiping them away herself.

"You're my best friend, Quinn. All I want is to sing a duet with you!"

"The only reason I _sang _a duet was because Santana needed me to—"

"Maybe _I _need you to sing one with _me_!" Rachel is starting to sound frustrated and Quinn bounces back on her sense of humor to get her out whatever the _hell _hole she's managed to dig herself into.

"Do _you_ need me to help you admit your feelings to the girl you love?" She smirks, even though there's a kind of indescribable _whirring _in her gut and she tries not to notice the look that flashes in brown eyes. "Because I've got the resume for it, now—"

"Sometimes," Rachel whispers, hands physically forcing the tears from her eyes, her voice cracking, "You are _such _an idiot." She pushes past Quinn and into the hallway and the blonde just sighs and splashes water on her face, taking a good look at herself in the mirror.

She's not sure why she always ends up looking at herself in mirrors.

She hates it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **16/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

* * *

><p>Rachel apparently refuses to answer her phone (though Quinn's pretty sure that if Patti LuPone called she'd snatch it up pretty quickly and the waitress is <em>not <em>a fan of double-standards...well, when other people have them, that is) and the blonde sits staring at her bedroom wall, bored out her mind and more than a little confused. For the first time since working there, she wishes that she could actually be working a Friday night, instead of staring at her ceiling, drumming her thumbs on her stomach.

She hits number three on her speed-dial.

Her voicemails on Rachel's phone had started out confused and somewhat sweet, then they moved on to just annoyed and frustrated...and now they're back to confused and hurt. She's not sure what she did and she's scared of what she _might _have and she'd rather not think about anything—she'd rather Rachel just pick up her stupid phone.

Quinn sighs and tosses the useless cellular device onto her bed.

Okay...this is just pathetic.

She leaps up from the comforter and is about to call _Puck _and ask him to do something with her before her phone blares out into the previously-silent room. Without even looking at it—or even noticing it's not Rachel's ringtone—she excitedly lifts it up to her ear.

"Rachel?" The hope is obvious enough in her voice to make Quinn wince in distaste. Okay, sometimes? She wishes she was still a bitch; this whole human being thing makes her sound like such a wuss sometimes. There's silence on the other line and she sighs, rubbing her temple, biting her lip, "Look, I know that maybe things are a little awkward and we have stuff to talk about but—"

She pauses, eyes squinting.

This breathing...she's...

With a sickening revelation, Quinn remembers the person who called her practically daily (seriously, creepy) for months before it just...stopped.

"Damn it." She growls, shaking her head, "I thought I told you to _stop _calling—"

"This isn't Rachel." And this, Quinn knows instantly, isn't the person that kept calling her. This isn't her pseudo-stalker.

She wishes it was her stalker—that'd be easier.

Quinn's fingers tighten around the phone, heart stopping somewhere around its second beat into the conversation, and her mouth opens and closes before a strangled exhale leaves her lips. She regains her consciousness a moment later, "Why are you calling me?" It's supposed to come out strong but it just comes out strained—like she just can't take any _more _of any of this—and her neck burns.

"I..." There's a moment of shuffling on the other end of the phone, a baby crying in the background, and Quinn feels freakishly nauseous and relieved at the same time. Extravagant fantasies of hospital visits and small coffins and _I'm so sorry _flitted through her mind like an old record and the breath she takes is both haunting and refreshing.

"You shouldn't call here." She bites, bile in her throat, but before she can hang up, a soft, familiar voice whispers across the line a question Quinn's scared to death of hearing.

"Do you want to meet her?" She sounds so familiar; her voice sounds _so _much like Rachel's that Quinn feels her shoulders ease before she registers the question. Maybe it's the Holidays that made Shelby want to reach out—maybe it's benevolence or loneliness—maybe it's just understanding; it doesn't matter why now or why...it's just the _if _that matters.

She knows she should hang up—should let a girl who should never know she exists be _happier _that way—but this is one of those moments where she can see the crossroads of her life in front of her eyes. On one side she can feel the breeze of Chicago air lapping at her toes; she can see herself dancing in the street with her nephews in Washington; she can see herself spinning Rachel on top of the Empire State Building.

She looks to the right—down the other crossroad—and sees...she sees everything. She wonders if Rachel would hate her.

She sees crystal blue eyes and small lips that part with breath, for the first time, and an endless stream of Lima years. She sees never leaving.

She feels like this is the moment she'll decide for forever.

She chokes and her knees knock and shake and Quinn doesn't have to even think about it—to meet a girl she should never know.

_Yes._

_ –_

Two hours later, a cardigan wrapped around her tight shoulders, Quinn's hand shakes as she raises it to knock upon a large, imposing door. She's alone and she's never felt so much like it in her life, even the night she found out she was...

God, so not the time for Rachel to not pick up her freaking phone. She doesn't want to do this—not alone—not at _all—_not without _Rachel._

She takes a huge, deep breath through her teeth and hisses it out like a balloon, eyebrows squeezing shut. She should have called Puck. She should have called Rachel, again. She should have told her mother. She should have said no. She should have—

"Quinn." Shelby Corcoran sounds impossibly gentle, eyes soft and endless and lips tucked up in a tired but welcoming smile. Her breath leaves her once more in an endless huff and she hesitantly squints her eyes open to see the familiar woman standing, endlessly grateful that there isn't a gorgeous, beautiful baby girl in her arms. "Are you just going to stand out here or are you actually going to come inside?" Her tone is teasing but apprehensive, accent apparent, and Quinn bites her lip.

"It took me an hour to decide what to wear." Quinn mumbles awkwardly, stepping across the threshold, desperately seeking to talk to this woman like she might understand; like she might know her. She hopes she does. "Like it matters to her." She shuffles awkwardly, bravado somewhere back in a bathroom with Rachel Berry. "I just wanted her to..." She shrugs. Care. Notice. She wanted to look important—nice—good—all the things the little girl will never think of her for the rest of her life. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Shelby smiles good-naturedly, dark circles under her eyes. This is the after-effect of pregnancy, Quinn assumes: late nights and breast feedings. The taller brunette welcomes her benefactor in and pale fingers fuss mindlessly on her stomach. The house smells like lavender and Quinn wishes she could smile. Is lavender genetic? She idly wonders if Rachel ever came here—if Rachel even knows where Shelby lives—and she suddenly feels treacherous.

Quinn is used to feeling treacherous, however, so she continues inside, some unknown need driving her to an open doorway where a bassinet sits, rocking mindlessly as soft music lilts throughout the room.

–

It's amazing, really, the things that are remembered in the oddest of moments.

When she was five Russell ran his fingers through her hair and he was so _tall _then, towering over her, but not the way he towered over her when she was older. His eyes crinkled and his hands were large and his teeth weren't as white as they were in the casket. He used to smoke, then, and his shirt smelled like cigars when Lucy dug her fingers into the blue dress shirt, nose buried in his neck.

"When I'mma Mommy, I'mma buy her the biggest room in all of Ohio!" She'd exclaimed and Russell's eyes danced, eyebrows furrowing.

"Just a room?" He teased.

"No! A whole house!"

"You're awfully indecisive, aren't you?" He'd chuckled, fingers poking at her cheeks before stroking them, adjusting her on his hip.

"_Noooo_." Lucy whined and Russell tried to hold back his laughter, "It's a girl. Duh." Her tongue poked through her teeth.

"She'll be as beautiful as you." He murmured, fingers pressing gently into her shoulders and eyes so soft, so less haunted, shirt smelling of smoke and brandy. It was a genuine statement, then, not an insult.

When Lucy was Quinn and 16, the last words Russell ever said to his daughter weren't _get out_, like she told Puck.

"She'll be as beautiful as you." He said. Whether he was referring to Lucy or Quinn's beauty, she never knew.

The most surprising part of it was that it wasn't hateful, whoever he meant.

Her mother had told her, once, that Russell had held her for three hours straight, after she was born, and looked into her eyes the entire time, waiting until she opened them and smiling with such adoration there that it broke her heart.

It's the best decision, Quinn knew, even then, because even looking through the doorway, Quinn _knows_. Sydney Beth is as beautiful as her.

Quinn's not sure she can do this. She's not sure she can look into her daughter's eyes, again, and leave.

When a Fabray makes a decision...when a _Fabray _makes a decision...

She imagines holding her baby girl in her arms and teaching her how to walk; read; write; dance. She imagines tucking her in at night and waking up at 3 am just to change her diaper; She imagines a life where she's happy and loving towards _something—_she imagines the capability to feel, again—and, for a moment, her heart swells with possibilities.

And then she remembers she never had any possibilities to begin with and she forces her face to remain impassive, forces the tears to the back of her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

Shelby nods, smile understanding but tense and Quinn leaves without looking back.

She's grateful, for the first time, that Rachel doesn't pick up her phone because she's not sure she can talk, anyways. She decides not to tell her—to never tell her—because sometimes, she remembers, silence is the best protector.

–

"Where did you go?" Judy asks, eyes curious when she leaves for work the next morning. "Is Rachel alright?" She almost scoffs—like she'd _know_, anymore, apparently—but doesn't have the energy for it.

Quinn doesn't tell Judy things about her life—never has—but knows she needs to tell her this, that her mother needs to _know_. "Shelby Corcoran's."

The look of utter shock on her mother's face distills to a masked detachment in a matter of impressive moments. Her tone is caring but obviously removed in case, Quinn supposes, it _needs _to be. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Quinn just shakes her head and leaves to go to work, praying she can just keep picking up shifts. It's the holidays—people need time off—and she needs _time off_.

She can't stop thinking of the large room for her da—for Shelby's daughter that Quinn couldn't afford that she promised her father she would. She can't stop thinking of Russell. She can't stop thinking of the look in Rachel's eyes before she left that bathroom. She can't stop thinking that Shelby and Rachel have the same eyes.

She can't stop thinking of her mother murmuring _you're a mistake _in her face and she can't stop thinking of Russell tucking the hair behind her ear and kissing her knee when she scraped it.

She can't stop thinking of the way Russell cried so hard after he broke her nose when she was 13 that he bought he plastic surgery.

She can't stop thinking she never should have picked up that stupid fucking phone.

–

Sunday is the recital and Quinn gets off work just in time to sneak in. Luckily, despite Rachel's everything being _quiet _on the Western Front, the featured dancer in today's performance had slipped the blonde her ticket two weeks ago.

It's surprisingly full for such a small little community venue. The majority of the patrons are either parents or grandparents and the occasional spatter of high school friends or siblings.

It's all _Jesus Take the Wheel _and _Thank God For Christmas _song-choice-wise, the kind of cheesy choices that Quinn used to hear all the time during worship services; but the way Rachel _dances _it—it's like...well...if Quinn hadn't known any better, she wouldn't have known the other girl was Jewish. She feels it.

She makes _Quinn _feel it.

Rachel flies around the stage with a purpose she's never known. Each step is perfect, distinct, and Quinn...Quinn notices that her dismount in the twelfth bar is flawless.

Rachel's beautiful; so beautiful.

It's the last breath of the last song that brown eyes scan the audience for the first time and catch Quinn's. She can't see far enough to actually _see _her eyes, and her face stays impassive, but the other girl can feel her stomach tighten and throat clench.

The audience raises to a standing ovation, regardless of the fact that most of the elderly in the place were probably ordered by their doctor _not _to stand, and Rachel finally looks away because the view's been blocked. When she sees Jesse St. James stand, too, applauding with a reserved golf clap, Quinn looks down at the floor before she slips out of the building.

She doesn't need to stay. Rachel probably wouldn't talk to her anyways.

–

It's almost Christmas, almost the start of their break (one week left) and Quinn's just not really sure about much, anymore...not that she was ever really sure about much, to begin with.

It's the first Berry game night that Ricky's actually asked her to work since she requested Monday's off (because Cindy never calls out sick, but her little boy apparently has chicken pox) and Quinn is actually alright not going because Rachel's been a little withdrawn since last week. Withdrawn in the answering text messages with one word kind of way and practicing _all _through lunch, face drawn, and refusing to accept Quinn's lunch offering with the demure (and totally false) claim that she already ate. All weekend not a single word—not a single call—and today, for the first time all year, instead of going to lunch she just went and sat in her car (kind of belting out Sarah Mclachlan with all the doors shut and windows rolled up because, hey, it made her _feel better_).

It's actually a little annoying because, sure, they might have had a little tiff—well, apparently they did—but she feels like a smoker who went cold-turkey, or something. Or maybe a girl whose best friend just randomly stopped treating them like a best friend and more like a...well..._just _a friend. Or a stranger. Or that kid that smells funny in the back of class that you feel the need to talk to him because you _feel _bad.

She vacillated all weekend, honestly, between needing Rachel and thinking it's better she not know about Beth—about Shelby—but apparently Rachel's making the decision without her.

She's probably too busy making out with Jesse Stupid Sucking James.

Whatever, Quinn can get over it. She's not ignoring Rachel _just _because she's started to randomly be lame, because apparently almost-strip-joints get pretty busy near holidays because everyone's depressed and in need of a feminine boost in their lives, and Quinn figures she'd be a bad Christian if she doesn't spread the holiday cheer.

And get paid for it.

So she finds herself at Lesley's greeting too many customers and thinking it kind of sucks that she gave Rachel her Hannukah presents, already, at the start of the month if she's just going to suddenly stop being her best friend. She huffs when she walks up to the bar, idly thinking that if Rachel doesn't want to _be _like Kelsi Livingston, she shouldn't have stopped being her best friend after she gave her presents because, seriously, _cookies _(Quinn might have a little bit of a best friend cookie problem). She feels like Rachel Berry just diva stormed out of her life and she doesn't like it—at all; it sucks.

But Quinn has to stay in the present because Roger, a regular, just offered her an extra twenty percent in tips, with plenty of drinks to come, if she dances to _Barracuda_ on the sound-system and she's pissed because she's _eight presents _in the money hole so she does it without even blinking, smile coy and cheers all around. Ricky doesn't look too pleased, but she gets him more orders and she gets more money, so it's a lot easier to ignore the sinking feeling that she's lost Rachel to something stupid when she can focus on the sinking feeling that comes from _doing_ something stupid.

She gets home at 3 AM, exhausted and burnt out because she had to stay an extra two hours until their new waitress showed up to work (only to get fired), smelling like cigarette smoke and alcohol, feeling too dirty and too lonely and stupid. She hasn't slept all weekend. She has to get up in three hours to go to school and she has a test tomorrow (Wednesday) in one of her AP classes that she hasn't _really _studied for and tomorrow is the last day of rehearsal for Glee before break so she can't skip it. She hasn't seen her mother all week save for briefly, Saturday morning, and they haven't even _talked _about Christmas and what they're going to do—not that they talk about all that much—and her phone is dead, so she doesn't even know if she's home or if her impromptu meeting with Jonathan (her mother's sponsor, not her brother in law) tonight, went well.

It's a habit to check the fridge for any post-its from her mother before she goes to bed because, between two jobs and a job and school it's _necessary_, and the loud green piece of paper stuck to their white fridge makes Quinn blink.

It's simple, written in her mother's elegant and perfected script—too elegant and perfect to be working in a diner and Pottery Barn, if you ask Quinn—and says all it needs to say in one sentence.

_I let her in—we should just make her a key. -Mom_

Quinn gulps, looking down, thumb pad swiping over elegant script, before she places it down and numbly walks into her room, quiet as she closes the door and wordlessly sets about her routine, footsteps gentle and conscientious. She, of course, doesn't turn on the light—doesn't need to—as she leans over the foot of the bed to slip out a specific book there, money hiding within its safe contents. She changes, an unavoidable sigh leaving her lips as she lifts her arms above her sore shoulders, t-shirt a smooth, clean relief from her stained uniform. She leaves for a moment and washes her face and takes out her contacts, eyes adjusting to the bright light, before she once more closes her bedroom door behind her.

She slips under the covers, another quiet groan leaving her lips as her muscles clench and then ease above the softness beneath her. She stays on her back, eyes closing and reveling in the feeling, waiting.

"It's 3:30 in the morning." Rachel sounds sad and small and Quinn sighs, exhausted and a little sad, too.

"Yeah."

"You have to get up in three hours."

"Yeah." She's too tired to argue—too tired to ask for her Hannukah presents back, either—so she just nods, regardless of the fact that, yes, she's _well _aware she has to be at school in three hours and, no, Rachel can't see her nod. There's silence and a canyon of thought and space between them, even in this tiny bed, and Quinn doesn't know what to say anymore.

She's not a fan of being abandoned; it's one of those things that no matter how many times it happens, it's just impossible to stomach. She still feels like she's been thrown out like yesterday's trash and, quite frankly, Rachel being here only makes it worse because it only confuses her.

"I missed you." Rachel finally whispers, vulnerable and voice scratchy and it's only now that Quinn allows her stomach to unclench, though she's still worried. "I'm sorry." She sounds sincere and a little heartbroken and the exhausted teenager turns over on her side to look at her, the image dark and blurry, no contacts or light in sight. Rachel's clinging to her pillow, face partially buried in it, her fingers so tight the pillow is bunching and Quinn eases one of her fingers to soothe out the wrinkle between her friend's brow without even thinking about it. The skin flattens, slowly, under her touch and Quinn just watches, eyes glazed.

"It's okay." She's not sure _what's_ okay, really, but it is. She's too tired to feel any other way. Rachel's next to her and even though she's tired and life kinda sucks, it's okay. She doesn't really want her Hannukah presents back...she just wants _Rachel _back. For some odd reason, that's a lot easier to admit after working a double on no sleep.

Rachel clings tighter to the pillow, for a moment, before her eyelids flutter and, even in the dark and without contacts, Quinn can see the emotion there. "I'm just...sorry." She whispers, voice cracking, and Quinn's finger moves down from Rachel's smooth skin in between her eyebrows down the line of her nose, slanting at the tip, before it drops down to the edge of her top lip. "Never do that again." Rachel pleads.

"Do what?" She asks in reply, finger skimming over the pucker of Rachel's parted lips to the top hook of her chin.

"Never..." Rachel takes a moment to compose her argument. "Never let me walk out like that; never work this late; never...never don't just come to game night, ever again."

"My phone was dead." Is Quinn's first defense but then she sighs, her finger slipping down from Rachel's chin to the tucked sheet of the bed. "I didn't know if I was invited anymore." Her voice lilts downwards at the end. "I didn't know if you wanted me—"

"Of course I do." Rachel's voice is adamant and Quinn's eyes have adjusted now, she can see the shimmer, the gleam on Rachel's eyes that means she's two seconds from breaking down and the brunette probably doesn't even know why.

"Hey," Quinn's voice is soft and soothing, too tired to hide the loving drop in the word, too exhausted to shove away the feeling behind the simple idea. "It's okay." It is—it really is—because Rachel's here and there's no where else the blonde wants her to be. It's stupidly amazing how everything seems to shift behind her when Rachel's so close. Everything doesn't feel so big and hard and unchangeable. She shifts closer, wraps her arms around the shivering brunette and holds her against her chest. Rachel's fingers dig into the fabric of her shirt, nose burying into a long neck.

Rachel breathes her in and she probably smells cigarettes and bars and Quinn's last seven hours because she just clings on tighter and lets out a broken breath.

"You try so hard." Rachel breathes against Quinn's neck and the blonde's eyebrows furrow and she splays her fingers out over shaking shoulders, reflexively holding closer. She can feel Rachel's tears on her neck and panic tiredly wades through her.

"Rach, what—"

"You...you...I..." Rachel's tears hiccup as she buries her face deeper into the skin of her neck and Quinn eases a hand through her tangled brown hair, shushing.

"It's okay, sweetie. It's okay." She's confused and worried and Rachel just clings harder.

"I'm so sorry."

"Rach—"

"I'm just so sorry."

And just like that, she _knows._

_Oh, God, _She _knows._

"Rachel..." She breathes it, panic displacing into _pain _in her stomach, worry turning into understanding as Rachel's fingers twist further into the fabric of her shirt and tears burn into her neck. She's surer, this time, knowing. "It's okay."

"I miss you." Rachel's lips turn up to her ear, breath against the edge of her neck, tears hot and plentiful. "Never work another Monday." Maybe this is Rachel's way of keeping her from this feeling, this lifestyle. Maybe it's an assurance. Maybe it's a promise, to her.

"Okay."

"I thought you'd never come back." Rachel whispers, broken, just them in a too-small bed, not nearly enough space between them, now, and a canyon nowhere in sight. Quinn pulls away, tone knowing. It's not the fact that Rachel probably stayed in Quinn's bed all night, waiting. It's everything, and they both know it.

"I'll always come back."

Rachel just leans forward, fingers shaking, and presses her mouth fully against the swell of Quinn's lips, lingering, a promise forming between them. It lasts a second too short and a second too long, their legs tangling and their breaths mixing together in an understood rhythm. For a moment, Quinn can't think, and when she opens her eyes, she doesn't _need _to, because Rachel's right there, looking at her, this sincerity clear in her eyes even when the whole picture isn't.

"Then I'll always wait for you."

This is a night, Quinn knows, they'll never talk about because they won't _need _to talk about it—the same way Quinn didn't need to turn around to know it was Rachel right behind her, the day of her father's funeral—and Rachel just leans forward and buries herself back in Quinn's neck.

They lay like that for a long while, eyes shut and breaths full of each other, before Quinn slips one eye open and grumbles, "Can I have my pillow back, now?"

She's promptly smacked in the face with it, tearful laughter a welcome retribution.

–

When Quinn wakes up in the morning to see she's alone, she isn't surprised.

She's more than aware that it isn't a dream because her alarm goes off at seven instead of six (meaning her best friend probably thought it was a better idea to just force her to sleep longer) and her phone is charged, sitting right next to her. There's a hand-written note in the form of a bright pink sticky note on top of her phone on the side of the pillow Rachel just shared, straight to the point:

_It's a sunny day, Quinn Fabray. Be sure to wear warm colors to fit in, but dress sensibly since it's still cold._

Her lips still tingle and her head hurts and the arm that wrapped around Rachel the night before is cramped and stinging. When she swipes her thumb over her phone, her stomach just drops because her wallpaper is no longer of Rachel and her mother dancing, but of them huddled together completely unawares, Thanksgiving Day, entirely happy.

Rachel, it seems, sought to change it for her.

Quinn swings her legs over the side of her bed, running a weary and frustrated hand over her lips down to her chin, eyes staring at the way Rachel's eyes shine on her phone.

When Quinn wakes up alone she isn't surprised...she's just disappointed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **17/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

* * *

><p>If Emma Pillsbury is surprised by the way her door is thrown open, only her wide eyes register it. She doesn't jump more than an inch and her poise is as immaculate as ever.<p>

She simply stares and waits and it makes Quinn even more restless as she paces across the room, fingers pinching incessantly. The blonde rubs a hand over her face before she looks back to the counselor, stopping for another moment before she resumes pacing.

"Quinn, while I appreciate you finally deciding to resume our visits, I just bought a new rug after Suzie Calminco had a...bulimic shock on it last week. I don't really want to buy another one." At this, the teenager can't help but look distastefully down at the rug underneath her feet, grimacing. "My thoughts exactly. Please take a seat."

Quinn obliges, sitting down, fingers instantly tapping restlessly on the desk. Ms. Pillsbury gives her a disdainful look that she pretends to miss. "I'm friends with Rachel Berry." Ms. Pillsbury blinks, obviously surprised (though Quinn's not sure how she's so surprised because the whole school knows) and she huffs in response. "Every one knows."

"Oh, no, Will," Emma catches herself, "Mr. Schuester told me. I just was not expecting you to actually tell me—"

"And it's no big deal, right?" Quinn continues, eyes off on the distance, hands still banging away on the desk.

"Of course not, friendships bloom and—"

"I mean, she's annoying and everything but I don't see why I should care—care at _all_." Quinn shakes her head. She stands up, pushing away and resuming her pacing.

"I'm...I'm not quite following—"

Quinn abruptly stands up, pacing once more. "She's actually not annoying. I don't know why I said that." She looks back at Ms. Pillsbury who is busy cleaning off the place Quinn's hands were with a wipe. "I don't know why I say that." A frustrated sigh leaves her lips. "Why do I _always _say stuff like that? It's not like I _need _to put her down to anyone, anymore. And I haven't." She's adamant. "Really. I haven't."

"Well, oftentimes we like to over-compensate for a situation which unnerves or—"

"She's actually kind of amazing." Her feet are wearing a hole into the new carpet, now, but she pays it no mind. Her stomach clenches and her teeth grind and her fingers keep pressing together mindlessly. She stops as she thinks about it, for a moment, admitting, "She's_..._fantastic." She shakes her head. "It's _me _that's not fantastic."

Emma, for a moment, blinks, trying to catch on to the train of thought. "I...Quinn, perhaps you should try making a list of positive traits that—"

Quinn whips her head around, "She's my best friend, you know. She's not just my _friend_." Ms. Pillsbury stops furiously wiping at the desk for a moment, eyes flicking up to rest on restless hazel. An easy smile settles on a perky face and the blonde feels something become even more unraveled.

"I think it's important to—"

"I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be _talking _about this. It's stupid, she deserves...she should have..." Quinn sighs, obviously frustrated with herself. The blonde is instantaneous in the motion to turn around and leave the office but Emma must notice something in Quinn's eyes because she actually stands up and eases the teenager back into her chair, no hand-wipes or sanitizer (though she does pour a generous amount into her hands as soon as she re-situates herself). "How about you tell me what's going on in your head, Quinn. Let's start there."

"I don't even know what I'm doing anymore." Quinn mumbles, fingers scraping at her brow and down her face, covering her eyes and letting a weary breath out of her lips. "I don't know what I was even doing in the first place." Her voice cracks and she wipes at her eyes, fingers stretching out on her thighs so they won't reach up and pull at her neck. She's not crying—she has no reason to, really—she's just tired; really, really tired.

Emma's eyes scan up and down her face before settling on flicking dark eyes. "Maybe that's something _you _need to figure out." Quinn blinks, not really sure that _that _is the best the counselor can do. "I want you to do something for me, Quinn; I want you to do something for _you_."

"Yeah." She mumbles, still feeling frail and unsettled, fingers tapping on her thighs and lips pursed. She always says this whenever Emma Pillsbury tells her to do _anything _but this is the first time she might be desperate enough to actually try it.

"The next time you see Rachel, I want you to just sit there and look at her for five minutes."

Quinn blinks, expecting something about her future or her past or, y'know, her _father_, "I...what?"

"Next time you're with Rachel, I want you to sit there and look at her for five minutes." Emma Pillsbury (somewhat ludicrously) repeats. Five minutes is...long. Five minutes is really, _really _long.

Well, at least it shouldn't be hard to get Rachel to talk straight for five minutes without noticing Quinn's looking at her. Admittedly, it might also not be the first time she's done it.

"You just...you want me to stare at her?" Quinn's not sure how to react to this. "And...what? What does this accomplish? Isn't that kind of...stalker-ish?"

"It'll accomplish just what you need it to, I think." She wisely skirts. "Write down the first ten words you think when you stare at her and keep the list." Emma shakes her head, "Whether or not you show them to me is up to you as this is highly personal...but please be honest with yourself, Quinn." Ms. Pillsbury asks this of all of Quinn's lists but this holds something different in the way the words leave slightly pursed, perfectly glossed lips.

"Nothing about my self-esteem—nothing about my mom or my dad or—" The waitress is still a little dumbfounded.

"It's all about you and your relationships." The counselor clarifies and assures. "Your attachments to others and how you relate to them is something that is exceedingly important and also something you should take note of." She falters, for a moment, before continuing, "Emotional reciprocity is something we all must work on." The vulnerability in her eyes tells a different story and Quinn sighs, fingers clenching into fists. Emma Pillsbury actually sounds like she might know what she's doing. For once. She nods and stands up. This isn't a scheduled session—it's actually in-between periods and she's totally late for her class with Rachel—but, surprisingly, she hasn't been staring at the clock like she usually does. "I appreciate you coming in to see me."

She tries to smile.

Stare at Rachel for five minutes straight? Write down a list? Quinn, for a moment, wonders if she's obvious or if she's stupid or if, maybe, she's just insane. That last one's as likely as the first one (because, hello, straight A's even with a job) and she closes her eyes. She doesn't have to work tonight and, suddenly, she's indescribably nervous and her mouth feels dry.

"Quinn," Emma calls from the desk, eyes down at the weekly paperwork-check for a social services form titled _Fabray, Quinn,_ an odd hilt to her lips, like she _knows _what the girl is thinking. "You're not the only person who comes into my office, you know." Her voice is sure and knowing. "I think you'll find out a lot more than you think if you'll just listen and calm down." Her smile thickens. "It's hard to hear the siren in the storm."

Emma Pillsbury is apparently fond of her own metaphors because she giggles as Quinn leaves the room, mind going a thousand miles per hour.

Rachel would like that, Quinn thinks, because metaphors are important.

When Quinn slips into her next class fifteen minutes late, the teacher doesn't even bat an eyelash upon seeing it's her—apparently, dead parents are good for _some _things because teachers don't question anything she does, anymore, just chalk it up to her remorse over her late father; the teachers, Quinn thinks, are worse than the students, sometimes—but Rachel's eyes are on her the entire time it takes her to meander to her seat and sit down, eyes straight forward and focusing on the board.

She's exhausted from a weekend (and weekday) full of too much work but she's too jittery to even worry about falling asleep in class...but she can't exactly pay attention with the way her friend's eyes are staring into her. In fact, she kind of wonders if Rachel could write down ten words on her, by now, and do Pillsbury's assignment for her.

"I'm fine." She mumbles when Simmons turns towards the blackboard, not really sure why she's easing the singer's worries when she's the one that left like a thief in the night.

"You're never late." Rachel counters, eyes still on the side of her face.

"Obviously not." She's droll, quiet and pressing her lips together. "I was late, today, and I'm _fine_."

"You're..." Rachel huffs. She seriously _hates _being ignored. Quinn knows that. She still doesn't turn. "Quinn, look at me."

Quinn doesn't want to look over because all she'll be able to think is _ten things _and Pillsbury and rub her thumb against her lip and never look away, so she doesn't. "Do you mind, Rachel? I'm trying to pay attention." She scapegoats. "We have a test tomorrow, remember? And I haven't had time to study, yet." She can feel Rachel's glare and is silently thankful Simmons hasn't turned around because the last thing she needs is to be called on, right now. She really _should _be paying attention. She taps her pointer finger against the surface of the desk.

Rachel's _still _staring at her and Quinn adds her thumb to the tapping.

"Did you get my message?" Rachel finally asks, voice a husk. She remembers the note and looks down at her warm attire, nodding.

"Of course."

The brunette stares for a long while before she finally lets out a quiet, long-winded sigh and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and focusing straight forward at the teacher. Quinn barely hears her murmur, "That's not quite what I meant."

Quinn's right: She looks over and doesn't stop looking.

–

Instead of talking at lunch, Quinn just sits at the piano and plays and Rachel sits down next to her but doesn't play with her; instead, she leans her head on her shoulder and just...listens.

–

Rachel has been Quinn's study partner for the entire year, so far, and it goes without saying that she'll be her study partner for their final tomorrow in Simmon's class. It's just...really, really awkward, the first five minutes, because all she can do is not look at Rachel because she feels pressured _to _look at her.

"Quinn, you've been acting horribly odd." Rachel grumbles, back of her hand coming up to press against her forehead as if she's sick. The blonde sighs roughly and twists around, pulling down the hand and finally looking into Rachel's eyes. She squirms a little. She kind of feels like she's betrayed something about them, having talked to_ Pillsbury _of all people—seriously, Quinn must have been desperate—but she still feels the need to follow instructions. She feels like a double-agent, a thief, or the destroyer of something sacred.

Five seconds later, Rachel's eyes boring into the side of her face with a scowl, Quinn realizes how stupid and ridiculous she's being.

"I'm sorry." She mumbles, wiping a hand over her eyes. She has a headache and, honestly, she can't even focus on their class notes. She grabs her glasses case and contact case from her bag and quickly switches, a tired gruff leaving her lips as the frames of her glasses slip onto her nose.

"Better?" Rachel asks, eyes distracted by the glint off of the silver of the frame, and Quinn smiles, her best friend's face clear through the glass. She pulls out her notebook, trying to figure out the best way to do this. She takes a deep breath and decides to just go for it.

"Much." She assures, eyes skimming over her notebook, nipping at the edge of her pen before she makes a numbered list to ten on the left edge of the lined paper and turns fully around, legs pulling up and crossing in the chair so that she's entirely facing her friend. Rachel's eyes skim Quinn's face the same way they do every time they see her in glasses and the other girl squirms for a moment before she resettles, their eyes locking. "So...would you mind explaining last week's notes to me?"

"You didn't fall asleep in class, did you?" Rachel jokes because, honestly, Quinn tends to retain information as well as the brunette. She just shrugs in response, a weak smile on her lips and stomach inexplicably _nervous_. Soon, round lips are moving and talking about an entirely different subject than the one Quinn is currently studying.

Five minutes.

Quinn sits back...and she watches.

Rachel's dark eyes spark when she talks about something that enthralls her—they dip when she talks about something that doesn't—and her eyebrows lilt upwards in a swooping rainbow-arch. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips when her teeth catch on a vowel and her throat bobs barely when she swallows. When she drinks water, her lips slide over the glass like a lily floating on water, eyelids fluttering three times before they slant and then close, for a moment, while she swallows and then open infinitely. Rachel gives her attention fully—_fully—_and her voice is passionate. When she explains things, she doesn't do it condescendingly but openly, like...a sharing co-op where ideas are produced.

_Radiant. Magnanimous. Deserving._

For some reason Quinn doesn't really hear, sometime between a minute and eternity, Rachel laughs. She throws her head back in a way that Quinn has only seen since becoming her best friend, allowed in this inner sanctum of intimacy she never knew existed. Her laugh is loud and spreads like a warmth from Quinn's head to her toes and back again. Her eyes bounce and her mouth is wide and her eyes are closed. Her hair swoops in front of her face like an eagle curving over an ocean, dark, majestic, and glorious.

_Beautiful. Generous. Gentle. Diva. __A little too much._She scratches it out, description by its side. _(Not one word)._

Quinn doesn't think about the list as she writes because the list has always _been_ there.

_Loving. Impetuous. _

Quinn leans forward, eyes catching the way Rachel's lips move and eyes dart.

_Star._

Rachel's heading somewhere, someday. She's going to _be _someone—or maybe she already is—and Quinn feels like she's watching from the ground, sometimes, while Rachel just flies up above. Untouchable. Her fingers still rest upon the sheet of paper, utensil rigid against the edge of her palm, and she still writes, gaze unwavering. Rachel ducks her head, "Quinn? I...is there something on my face?"

Quinn can't help but smile. "No...I just...I..." She doesn't look down at her list and more than one word is produced, this time.

_The best thing...that's ever happened to me._

She stops—freezes—after she realizes what she's just written. She's almost scared to look down, but she's even more frightened to stay looking at Rachel. So she looks down. She blinks. She keeps looking. And, maybe after a lifetime, she even breathes. Quinn sits there and stares, the corner of her left lip twitching before it shirks upwards in a lilting arc, eyes scanning and lips dry.

"Oh." She whispers, eyes flitting down to her palms resting upwards on her notebook. Her fingers clench and then release, hazel eyes entranced with their subtle movement, pale skin covering pencil-lined handwriting. Her hands, she knows, have done this—written this—confirmed this. It's not a sinking or a crying or a startling sensation...just...just an..."Oh."

"Oh...what?" Rachel inquires, leaning forward, but Quinn doesn't see her—just feels her—and tries not to let herself think too much on it.

"Nothing." She chides herself, eyes refusing to meet the imploring pair mere inches from her own. "So explain nuclear—"

"Quinn, _what_?" Out of the edge of a flitting eye she can see Rachel's knee bounce; not in frustration—impatience..._nervousness_. Quinn blinks.

"Nothing." She whispers, again, surer this time. It's a blatant lie, really. It's not nothing. This is big—this is kind of a huge deal, for her—but it's not like a huge revelation, or anything.

Quinn's a lot of things, but she's not stupid; she's known—she's _always _known—and it's not the actual..._this _that throws her off. It's the fact that she's not freaking out about it. It's the fact that, somewhere, Quinn just accepts it, and she feels like she _shouldn't_ just accept it. Russell Fabray or not, she doesn't feel like _this _is something she should just _accept_.

"Quinn, you're not even on this planet, right now." Rachel's fingers are so gentle as they tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and when their eyes meet, something deep in Quinn solidifies and it just makes _so _much sense.

But, still. She shouldn't want this—she shouldn't need this, either—and there's always been a line of columns (of economic sub-sets) that Quinn Fabray keeps tucked away for her mental consumption. Mr. Wilson, her sophomore AP Economics instructor, used to call them 'trade-offs'. Quinn calls them obvious fact—common sense. When you go to work for three hours and you don't spend that time studying for a test, that isn't a _trade_-_off—_that's a necessity. When you live in your car and spend all of your Christmas money to go to the doctor instead of spending it on shoes, that isn't a trade-off—that's responsibility. When you look at Rachel Berry and want nothing more than to...

This isn't a trade-off—it's a doomed enterprise of combining factors that Quinn Fabray can see, from miles off, won't lead to a profit. Rachel Berry isn't a path that is possible for her because there's a much more obvious path that _is—_just like working and doctor bills.

Rachel Berry won't be here in two years; Rachel Berry is made for something; Rachel Berry will leave everything behind and Quinn...Quinn isn't _capable _of this.

Quinn was entirely okay with this, honestly, up until this very moment. She was okay because she didn't realize how _big _this was—how big it was getting—and now she feels so _stupid_.

It's not like Quinn Fabray is the doctor bill to Rachel Berry's life, either—the other girl has dreams. She has chances. She has _choices_.

And Quinn isn't one of them.

This, maybe, is what hurts the most.

Quinn...Quinn's not capable of this.

Quinn's not stupid—she's known, she's always known—and maybe that's why it hurts so much to realize that knowing, sometimes, sucks _so _much more than not.

Rachel looks unnerved as she stares into Quinn's eyes and the pale girl tries to smile, a little, covering her notebook with her hands so that the list isn't visible. "I have to leave." The need to run is like a pounding pulse of blood flowing through her veins. Quinn feels trapped and restless and _helpless _and her neck is flaring.

The shock in Rachel's eyes only unsettles her further. "I...you just got here."

"I have to _go_." Quinn grinds out, fingers clenching. Rachel tries to grab her hand but the blonde leaps back like she's burned and instantly feels shamed by the pain flashing on her friend's face. "You never can keep that in, can you?" She mumbles, laughing a little at herself. Rachel, of course, is like an open book and she really wonders what it's _like_, to be that: yourself.

"I can't hold...what?" Rachel's voice trails off and she shakes her head, "Was it something I said?" She pauses for a moment, eyes widening. "Was it...was it about last night?"

"Yes." Quinn instantly replies and then winces. It's everything Rachel's _ever _said and did since she's known her, if she's honest. She tries to soften herself and looks at Rachel, honestly _trying, _"Of course not. Don't be stupid." It wasn't last night that bugs her; it's right _now._

"Quinn?" Rachel just sounds confused and her best friend can't blame her. This time when Rachel's hand slips into her own and squeezes, Quinn stills and wonders, for a moment, if she's strong enough to face this _now_. If she should just turn around and not run away from something for the first time in her life. She can feel a slight tremble in Rachel's hand and her head ducks. It's cold and Rachel's shaking and, for some odd reason, this seems more tangible than anything else.

"Are you cold?" She whispers disjointedly, other hand mindlessly coming to cover the hand, trailing it up Rachel's arm to warm it—to soothe it—to apologize, on some small level. "You're shaking."

"Quinn." Rachel's voice sounds _understanding _and _terrified _and it makes her unsettled and frightened and stupidly hopeful. The young teenager thinks her best friend should just _stop _saying her name like that. "Look at me." She pleads.

There's a moment where Quinn idly considers it, ignoring the consequences...because she knows that as soon as she looks into Rachel's eyes, this _revelation _all she can think about, she'll do something she'll never be able to take back. She'll take something that's not hers to take and break something she never wants to be broken. She wonders what it'd feel like, lips slanted and eyes closed and a soft breath expelled between them before she _braves _something for once in her life.

Quinn turns Rachel's hand in her own and looks over her palm, life line stretching further than the blonde's ever remembered her own foraying. Rachel's always been braver. It's beautiful, really, the crevices and cracks that break apart smooth skin. She thinks, once more, about Rachel's stance on metaphors and mindlessly smiles.

But then she thinks of Puck and Finn and _Rachel_.

She can't do this—not to Rachel—not to _Rachel_.

She drops her arms and lets them hang, dangling lifelessly in the chasm between their bodies, head still ducked and regretful. "I have to go." She whispers, once more, "I forgot I told my mom I'd be back early, tonight."

She hasn't lied to Rachel in a long time (she actually can't think of the last time she really _lied _to her) and she thinks she could do better if she really _wanted _to deceive the singer but, honestly, she doesn't.

"It's Thursday." She hears Rachel mumble, heartbroken, as she leaves.

"She's off, tonight." The lies are too easy, perhaps. Rachel's never known about her mother's AA meetings and, for once, Quinn's happy that she hasn't told her.

"Oh."

Quinn stares at the floor and Rachel stares at Quinn.

"Will you..." She clears her throat. "I'll see you at lunch tomorrow?"

"Of course." That was never a question. Even this, Quinn swears, cannot keep her from maintaining this...whatever this is. This friendship; this tangle; this...necessity. Quinn's spent too long blindly searching for too many things to turn them away when she's found them, and Rachel's more than just one thing—she's more than just any _thing—_and even now the teenager is still a little selfish, sometimes. She might be scared but she's not stupid and she might not be brave but she _is _knowing. "Don't be so dramatic." She downplays and then makes a mistake—she looks up into brown, batting eyes. Her breath catches and her lips pull and her tongue swipes against the back edge of her top lip, scraping against her teeth.

She wants this more than she's wanted anything and the fact that she's _okay _with that is more frightening than the fact that she wants it at all. Maybe it's a chance and maybe it's an opportunity, this look in Rachel's eyes, but either way Quinn knows it's _dangerous_. It's stupid and dangerous and reckless and the last time Quinn was any of those things, she wound up pregnant and homeless and unwanted...unloved.

Alone.

She doesn't want to hurt herself but most surprising is that the first thought that's crossed her mind is that she doesn't want to hurt _Rachel_.

Rachel's hand is soft in her own and her eyes are uncannily anticipating and her lips part just slightly in awe and something else Quinn knows too little about. Her eyes flutter and she leans forward, slightly, the same time that the other girl stiffens.

"Don't." Rachel begs and Quinn nods, thinking she understands, turning to leave. A firm hand instantly twists and clamps down. "I meant don't leave." Her tone is stern, but still surprisingly vulnerable and Quinn sighs, risking looking back up and catching those same eyes.

Her other hand clenches around the list and, suddenly, Quinn realizes that leaving is not an option. It's a necessity.

"I'm sorry." Somewhere, she is. The apology is more than just words and they both _know _it. "I have to go. I'm feeling a little sick, anyways. I should sleep."

"You really _don't _do enough of that." Rachel mumbles.

The way Rachel looks at her as she goes is unnerving and heart-breaking and Quinn tries to tell herself that she's just _protecting _her, really.

Trying can only go so far.

Two hours later, list clenched (ironically) _listlessly _in her tired palms, Quinn can't concentrate and she's _so _screwed because she _still _has a huge test, tomorrow.

She does what she did two years ago, a broken arm and mind moving a thousand years a minute—she throws herself into studying and doesn't allow herself to think about it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **18/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N: **The song in this chapter is the (somewhat newly-released, actually) New York Doll's "Fool For You". While the song might seem a little odd to you, I figure I might as well tell you, now, because you'll never know any other way. Both New York Dolls and Stevie are throwbacks to Quinn's parents and the generation they came from. New York Dolls and Rod Stewart happened to be Russell Fabray's favorite bands in his use-Tom Petty and Stevie were Judy's.

Normally I wouldn't inform you of this (because Quinn, honestly, probably won't inform you of this) but it's...well, you're never going to find out any other way, and the knowledge of this, I think, will help culture the rest of the (long-ass trek) journey in front of us.

Also: the two chapters that follow this are technically one chapter...and are long. Just a heads (head's? heads'?) up.

This, hopefully, is a little bitter-sweet silly with the rest of life.

Without further ado:

* * *

><p>It's a horrible thing, really, because Quinn has a dream that Emma Pillsbury asks her about the list and it suddenly becomes a <em>musical<em>.

What's even _worse_ than that—because, seriously, that's pretty bad—is that the musical is comprised of one Donna Lewis song...over and over and over again.

She wakes up humming. She eats breakfast humming. She takes her first final _humming_. And when she walks into her lunch period to see Rachel, it's just not _fair _because she's actually _singing _the song from her dream.

_I love you, always forever—near and far, closer together_—

Quinn manages not to scream but her eye _does _twitch; this is just too much.

The worst is that she can't even tell Rachel about it because—come on—how awkward is _that_?

She bails halfway through lunch to go sit in the bathroom stall, earbuds plunged into her ears and trying _desperately _to get another song stuck in her head.

It doesn't work.

So, halfway through the third song, she huffs and decides she needs to make a pit-stop before her last final of the semester.

–

"Why did you _do _that?" She snaps when she walks through the office doors, shoulders rigid and eyes set. The counselor startles, bottle of hand sanitation squeezing out from her clenched fist onto the table with a small yelp. Quinn drops her gift bag unceremoniously to the floor.

"I..." Ms. Pillsbury clears her throat, sticky hand clenching her heart before she slowly turns around in her chair to the irate student, a false smile plastered on her face. "Quinn." The word holds a touch of frustration at the end, but is blindingly happy and utterly _cheerful_, regardless. "How lovely to see you—"

"Why did you make me do that?" Quinn once more snaps, hands on her hip and teeth bared. For a moment she feels like she's in her cheerleading uniform, again, the way the counselor flinches, gingerly placing the now-half-empty bottle of hand-sanitizer on her covered desk, a look of dismay shooting down towards her desk.

If Quinn wasn't so annoyed, she'd feel worse.

"I assure you, I didn't make you do anything." Emma mutters, tone faltering as she rushes forward to clean up the mess, hand shaking slightly, "If you feel I've pushed you towards something, then perhaps we should discuss it because, as your counselor, the bond of trust is—"

Quinn rolls her eyes and rushes forward, grabbing the tissues from the trembling woman's desk and wiping the goop up before crossing to the back and throwing them in the trashcan.

"I—Quinn, you don't have to—"

"I mean, I'm here for my _father_." Quinn bites, ignoring her in good fashion, continuing her trips from the desk to the trashcan. "Not for Donna Lewis or—"

"Donna Lewis?" Emma Pillsbury looks horribly confused. Quinn sighs and throws out another clump, swiping her hand over the desk once more.

"It was a nightmare—" Why is her trashcan all the way across the room, anyways? Shouldn't she always be throwing stuff out? Or is her psychotic counselor all into that feng shui stuff, too?

"Would you like to discuss it?" She looks too happy at this prospect. Quinn scowls.

"You can psychoanalyze me all you want to," Quinn's tone is clipped as she throws the last bit of hand sanitizer in the trash, mindlessly rubbing the rest of it into her hands in a display that appears to make her counselor nauseous. "But leave Rachel Berry out of this."

Emma tilts her head to the side. "You had a dream about Rachel Berry and Donna Lewis?"

Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose, sitting down, "I had a dream about Rachel Berry with Donna Lewis in the background," She puts it right before she realizes she's, perhaps, said a bit too much, "But that doesn't matter—"

"I think it does, Quinn." She says, tone so perky and annoying that she honest-to-God wants to reach across and strangle her before she remembers her good Christian ways and, well, doesn't.

"Well _I _don't."

"You obviously do, otherwise you wouldn't go out of your way to tell me." The counselor's voice is soft, knowing, and gaze surprisingly piercing. Quinn, for once, is caught in the chair. Emma Pillsbury, though her hands are careful to avoid the spot where Quinn's were, itch against the table, scratching slightly, and it's obvious that she's avoiding cleaning the mess to keep her gaze with the young teenager. "The sooner you come to terms with that, I think, the sooner you'll be able to come to terms with...everything...in your life." The everything is all-encompassing and more than a little frightening.

Quinn blinks and leans back in her chair.

Fabrays don't come to terms with things—they make the terms—and she's not sure how she feels as the revelation that she hasn't set a single term in her entire life washes over her.

"She..." Quinn clears her throat, looking down at her hands before her gaze slowly raises to see dark brown orbs swirling in anticipation and nervousness. She falters, for a moment, words catching and eyebrows furrowing, but wills herself to say it—wills herself to consciously...open up. "She means a lot to me." Her voice cracks, but it's more than she's ever said these past five months of sitting in this chair—more, maybe, than she's really said to anyone—and the look of happiness that booms through Emma's eyes makes her fingers scratch against her bare knees so she puts them face down on the table, instead.

It's all she'll say, today, they both know—maybe all she'll ever say—but she's said it and Emma's hand trembles, slightly, as she reaches it out and places it lightly on top of Quinn's.

"That's not a bad thing, Quinn." Emma's voice is understanding and her eyes are soft and Quinn's never wanted an adult to see through her so much in her entire life, because the woman's batshit insane enough...maybe she'd understand.

"No." Quinn decides, looking down at their hands and feeling her shoulders relax before they tighten. Their fingers slip because of the left-over hand-sanitizer both on the table, and between their skin, and she laughs a little, tight and closed. "It isn't."

There's a moment of shared silence before Emma finally asks, head once more tilting to the side.

"Wait, which Donna Lewis song?"

–

Quinn sits in the back of the room, away from Rachel, so that she can concentrate and slumps, exhausted, against the desk when she finishes the exam, dark circles practically black beneath her eyes and face slightly gaunt. She startles when she feels a familiar hand run through the small hairs on the edge of her neck. She stiffens for a long while until those same fingers move from the dip of her neck down to her sore and tense shoulders, sliding knowingly against them and Quinn lets out a low sigh, easing back.

"How did you do?" Rachel leans forward and whispers into her ear, voice low and soothing, and Quinn knows from the open way the other girl is acting that she must have fallen asleep after she finished her exam and they're more than likely alone in the class, since this period is right before they get out. Finals schedule has been crazy, but good, and they have an hour or so until they have to be in the choir room.

"I studied like crazy last night." Quinn mumbles into the table, shoulders rolling slightly before smoothing down. "You?"

"Despite my study partner flying out of my house last night like Barbra Streisand in a house full of bacon," Rachel drawls, fingers still gentle as they ease out the muscles in Quinn's spine. "I, of course, did fantastically." One of her hands moves back up to a tense neck and she can't help it (and she's too tired to care, honestly) when she groans. "You're so tense." Rachel mumbles, tone unreadable.

"I don't think I've stopped moving all week." Quinn offers for explanation. She hasn't really slept, either. Between work, studying, and running from things she doesn't understand, the exhausted teenager isn't even sure she's slept. Donna Lewis, she reasons, doesn't count. She's _so _ready for break.

"Glee was moved to tonight." Rachel says. Quinn has no idea why she feels the need to tell her this—she was _there _when it happened—but allows her to talk, anyways. "Are you coming?"

"Of course." The bar is actually closed for the rest of the weekend (she was informed by a tired Cindy, this morning, via phone) because of renovations. Or maybe it was a cop-bust. Quinn can't really remember—she really wasn't paying attention—and all she knows is that she has the rest of the week and the weekend off to sleep.

She knows pregnancy was hard and all, but sometimes she misses it just for the novelty of _sleep_. But maybe if Rachel keeps doing whatever the hell she's doing to her neck, she might just start drooling right here and now on this table and never wake up.

"I also decided, last night, to have a party this weekend." The hint of nervousness that laces Rachel's factual tone is something that only talking to her every day has given Quinn the expertise to identify.

"What?"

"I'm throwing a party." Rachel repeats and Quinn finally leans up, eyes drooping, back still partially collapsed against a tan, skilled hand.

"_You're_ throwing a party?" She's skeptical of the authenticity of this. Rachel's fathers are away this weekend every other month because of their status with Columbus' hospital (Hiram is a masterful surgeon, his steady hand his calling card; Leroy, who explained it to her once, is apparently needed as a lawyer for legal reasons. Quinn thinks they probably just like to have some...alone time, every once in a while because Columbus isn't _that _far, but whatever). But Rachel and the word 'party' are not two things Quinn tends to put together in the same sentence.

"Yes." Rachel's eyes slit. "You don't have to sound so surprised about it."

"I just..." Quinn shakes her head, "Okay, whatever. Is it for Glee club?" She assumes because she can't really see her friend trying (and succeeding) with much else.

"Of course." Her head tilts to the side a little and she can't help but smile in response. Rachel's fingers still haven't moved from her back. It surely must be an oddly intimate sight—the two of them—and Quinn sighs.

"Why?"

"To celebrate our victory at Sectionals, of course." Rachel pauses a moment. It's been a while but everyone's been busy, anyways, this is reasonable enough. "This might also be on my 'To-do before twenty' list." Quinn's well-aware of Rachel's list because she stumbled upon it around one month ago and she's still not sure _how _Rachel's going to star in a musical with Leonardo DiCaprio (of all people) within three and a half years, but she's sure if anyone knows how, her best friend would.

"Tell me what to do to help," Quinn hesitates, "_Tomorrow_, and we'll do it." Rachel's eyes slip over her friend, skimming her face and taking her in.

"Of course." Her fingers tuck a piece of blonde behind a tilted ear. "You didn't sleep at all, last night, did you?" She sounds so _concerned _and Quinn purses her lips.

"Sure." She lies and Rachel's eyes warningly glare. "No, not really." She admits. She only slept for an hour and the repercussions of it are still continuously playing, verse-by-verse, in her head. The idea that strikes her is her best all day, "Let's go ahead into the music room and I can sleep _there_." Pursed lips soften and smile indulgently at her in response before Rachel tugs Quinn into a standing position, eyes bright.

"I liked you better down there." Rachel grumbles. "You were shorter than me."

"Such a pity." Quinn pats her on the shoulder. "They should have watered you more during your youth." Rachel roughly slaps her shoulder and she winces. "Okay, oww, that one really _did _hurt."

"Good."

"You're not _really _that short."

"I'm not a plant." She huffs. "That wasn't even funny."

"Well, you are what you eat—oww, stop hitting me. Seriously." Her arms are still sore from working and she might be a bit of a wuss, right now, but Rachel seriously packs a punch, sometimes.

"You're horrible, Quinn Fabray." Rachel pouts. "I just gave you a back massage and you're making jokes about me being vegetation."

"I'm a druggie, remember? It's only fitting that my best friend be a _pot hea—_" She dodges Rachel's next slap and smirks. "Pot head." She triumphantly smirks.

Rachel, in a way that displays she's quite displeased with herself, smiles in retaliation, slipping her arm into the crook of Quinn's elbow. Their eyes catch and Quinn, for a moment, forgets what it was like to wake up alone and only remembers what it's like to wish to not.

–

Their last meeting of the semester is somewhat uneventful and if Quinn didn't have one last final tomorrow before break, she'd probably ruminate more on missing the club (even though, if she's honest, she hasn't felt particularly present within the group's dynamic, this year). They sing and laugh and joke about not practicing over the holiday, even though Rachel glowers at Quinn as a result. Mercedes gives her a Christmas present and Quinn, knowing the girl better than she thought (even if they don't see each other as much, anymore), shyly pulls out her own gift from a bag underneath her chair.

In fact, in a blind feeling of magnanimous proportions—perhaps Rachel's rubbing off on her, or something—Quinn actually gives a small gift to everyone in the club. Even Rachel, who—regardless of the fact that she already gave her her stupid Hannukah presents—Quinn knew would feel left out if she didn't, gets one. It's a cheap little two dollar wand that she saw at Walmart when buying Chick peas with her mother, tucked in the shelf where a kid must have stashed it, and the teenager bought it without thinking.

"You've outdone me." Rachel smiles, tapping her wand on her knee as she scans the room. Quinn shrugs her shoulders. Rachel already gave Quinn gifts for Hannukah and she _knows _Rachel's getting her something for Christmas, too, because her father's are as bad at keeping secrets as the young diva, herself, so Quinn doesn't think it's that big of a deal.

"You brought in a five-course meal for Hannukah." Quinn states, eyebrows slanting and voice monotone. "I bought you a two-buck wand from Walmart."

"You've outdone me." Rachel once more states, tone happy (if a little put out) and eyes dancing.

"Whatever." Quinn smiles, flicking the end of the wand. "There's no point in having a job if I can't spend my money on useless plastic toys, right?"

"I'll have you know this obviously isn't useless." Rachel swirls the toy in a wide arch in demonstration, as if rainbows should come out of the end of it, or something. "It happens to bring joy to the magical Queen of this realm—"

"That being you." Quinn drawls.

"Obviously." Rachel smirks, once more swirling the wand, "And since _I _am happy, that means I can make all of my subjects happy, as well."

"You really _are _one of those little children who never learned how to share in Kindergarten, aren't you?"

"I shared my meal for Hannukah." Rachel petulantly protests. "And I share my wondrous presence with _you_." Her smile is still in place and Quinn laughs. Rachel knocks the wand gently against her nose. "Let it be henceforth declared that I, the Magnificent Rachel Berry—"

"Is that capitalized? I'll have to know for the documentation of this declaration."

"Yes. It's capitalized." Rachel clears her throat, waving the wand high up above her head, "I, the Magnificent Rachel Berry, capitalized, for the records, hereby declare Quinn Fabray Countess of the Land of—"

"I don't think it's proper to have that many prepositions in one sentence."

"Oh, shush." Rachel sends her a look, wand still high in the air, "Countess of the Land of Out-doing and shall henceforth—"

"You used 'henceforth' twice in your declaration." Quinn smirks. Rachel shoves her shoulder, tone annoyed.

"Shall _henceforth _be known as my Advisor in all matters of—"

"Fashion?" Quinn guesses. Kurt, a seat back, pokes his head between them.

"Fashion. Please say fashion." He concurs.

Rachel scowls at both of them.

"All matters of my rule." She concludes, wand still high in the air. Quinn giggles when her friend brings it down and crowns her. "She shall also now be known as...though I'm currently deliberating the decision," Rachel mumbles before smiling, "Quinn the Good."

"Oh, I'm Galinda, now?" She's still giggling, cheeks red and eyes bright.

"Glinda." Rachel corrects. "The _guh _is silent."

"She's not really all that good." She discounts, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, Quinn, I'm astounded to know that not only do you really not know much about _Wicked_, regardless of the fact that I am _well _aware of your closet broadway nerdiness, but also appear to know little about yourself." Rachel loosens her grip on the wand for a moment to lean forward and tuck a strand of cascading blonde behind her best friend's ear and Quinn flushes, for a moment, turning away and slipping her hands under her knees.

Rachel's eyes are playful, but true, and Quinn knows for a fact that all of Glee (save for maybe Puck, Santana, and Kurt who have dealt with them on a semi-occasional basis) are looking at the pair with wide eyes and startled breath. Rachel is rarely joking or over-the-top when it comes to things of a comedic nature, and Quinn never flushes or looks content. It might be an odd sight, but Quinn finds herself monumentally glad for the feeling of joy that pushes through her chest.

"Okay, _Elphie_." Quinn's smile is wide and Rachel's, simply, radiant.

Rachel holds onto the wand for the rest of the class, arm slid between Quinn's, and smiles. When they finally move to leave thirty minutes passed club meeting time and Rachel mentions her proposal for this weekend, Quinn glares at every single member of the Glee club until they agree to go the the party on reflex.

It's not a monumental meeting, by any standard, but Rachel, Quinn thinks, is kind of a monumental friend.

The next day when classes finally get out for the break and they're both sitting on Rachel's bed, planning for the party, Rachel slips over to her closet with a large smile and slips out a cheap plastic tiara that she slides gingerly onto her best friend's head.

"What?" Rachel laughs when Quinn looks both surprised and touched. "You think you're the only one who can buy cheap plastic gifts?" The shorter girl taps Quinn gently on her nose in a manner that might be becoming habit, an indulgent and gentle smile on her face as she redirects her question, using proper title, "Quinn the Good?"

When Quinn gets home she safely stows the cheap tiara in the top of her closet where she knows nothing will happen to it. It's not displayed like she might have displayed her Homecoming Queen tiara, if she was who she used to be, a year ago. It's not boasted about or loud or even a proud thing. It's not a secret, either. It's something...cherished. Something she longs to keep for herself instead of flaunting like a mask of (in)security.

It's okay, though, because Quinn saw that cheap wand tucked the same way in Rachel's closet, and the blonde can't help but smile.

Even if she hates herself for it.

–

"So..." Rachel twists a lock of her hair around her fingers and Quinn huffs, head dropping down into the blankets with a loud thud, knowing what's coming. They've finished setting up for the party, tomorrow, and Quinn didn't feel like driving home, "What would you sing with me if you were to—"

"No, Rachel."

"Hypothetically—"

"_No_, Rachel."

"Hypothetically!" She shouts, waving her hands, "Just hypothetically! What would you sing hypothetically?"

Quinn gives her a hesitant stare. "Okay, fine, hypothetically."

Five minutes later, Quinn gulps a little as she looks down at the song that Rachel had picked, silently wondering if this girl was going out of her _way_ to embarrass her in front of the whole school—they might just sing it in front of the whole glee club, but doing something in front of Kurt was like doing it on the school's lawn—and her mouth goes suddenly dry. Hey, she might be on a whole new leaf, now, and generally not care...but it doesn't mean she _wants _to look like an idiot, either. "...I actually ask you _what _song we're singing, before I agree to it, if you ever manage to actually get me to agree to a duet." Rachel's face lights up and a thin hand instantly stops her, waving her off, "Didn't agree; hypothetical."

Rachel, of course, looks completely unaffected and unaware of Quinn's personal torment. Typical. "I don't know what you're talking about, Quinn."

"Okay, seriously?" The blonde groans before she buries her head between her knees, thinking of Rachel's song that she'd _want _them to sing in front of the club. "Or are you just _that_ naive?"

Thankfully, Rachel doesn't hear this part before she crosses over and puts her hands on her hips, gaze stern. "I'll have you know, Quinn Fabray, that this song fits both of our vocal ranges _wondrously_, along with perfectly capturing our current relationship and our struggles to _get _here!"

"Rachel...I am _not_ singing _anything _by Stevie Nicks with you, let alone _this_ song." Her voice is a little strangled, eyes a little wide, but she's nearly certain she got her point across.

"You sang Stevie Nicks with Santana." She pouts. Really, honestly _pouts_. "Why won't you sing it with me?"

Quinn wants to reply, "Because it's so ridiculously _gay_!" But thinks that that might be a little offensive, and knows there would be consequences...besides, she doesn't want _three _people lecturing her on the offensive use of word choice. Rachel's fathers are just as bad as their daughter. Seriously, every time Leroy even _hears_ someone say 'gay' he runs into whatever room it is and starts screaming about the ACLU. It's a little unnerving.

Really, though, Quinn has no problem with the whole _gay _thing. In fact, she thinks she's demonstrated so admirably over the past couple of months. She even punched a quarterback about it—a story that has Finn get even freakishly taller with every re-telling of the story at Lesley's—and just last week helped her friend get over her huge ole' happy gay-bo crisis. She's, as her mother tried to say about Mercedes' family, once, _down _with the whole gay thing (she's not sure why she can't seem to refer to anything homosexual as anything other than 'the whole gay thing' in her head). She just...there's something about actually sounding gay with _Rachel _in front of the (equivalent) of the entire school that unsettles her. It's not the idea that people would think she's in a relationship with the small diva because, hey, at least then maybe that one guy from the hockey team would stop asking her out but...it's just..._Rachel_.

She knows there's rumors about her and Brittany and Santana rampant all over the school and she doesn't care about _that—_but...with Rachel?

The way Rachel's looking at her right now makes her just want to say no because it twists every single part of her tongue and tangles every phrase of her thoughts. It unnerves her and makes her jaw clench and her head hurt. It makes her _excited _and that makes her _scared_.

But Quinn knows better than to say what she's really thinking, so she says, instead, "It's not really in my vocal range." It's a little weak, but it'll do.

Rachel glares, "We can _make _it in your range. That's what key changes are for." Quinn shifts a little under Rachel's gaze.

"It's not really _your _style, either, Rach—" Different tactic.

"I pride myself on being entirely adaptable to any musical situation or genre." Is her instant response, lips in a long, straight line. Of course.

"Then why can't we just sing some Vanilla Ice?" Quinn smirks, trying to add a little bit of levity. Rachel just starts impatiently tapping her foot against the floor—never a good sign—and the blonde knows her time with a rational Rachel Berry is limited. "Seriously, Rachel, I'm just a little uncomfortable singing it, I guess." Before she can ask, she throws her hands up, placating, "I don't _know _why. I just don't want to sing it." Rachel's eyes have that glint in them again and Quinn once more lifts up her hand, "Hypothetically."

Rachel looks at Quinn like she knows _exactly _why she doesn't want to sing it, but the edge of her voice softens when she shakes her head. "How about you pick something that _no one _will sing, then?" She sounds a little vulnerable as she sits on the bed next to Quinn, the dip of the motion making the blonde's shoulder knock into her hip. "Because I...I really want my duet with you to be memorable...and special."

"Rach..." Quinn feels something in her throat catch as she looks up and tries to catch brown eyes that are shying away from her own. "I think anything you sing will be memorable and special." She pauses for a moment, the words spilling out of her lips before she can even think about them, "And anything you sing with me will make me feel special...will feel memorable to me." She pauses, smile stretching, "Hypothetically."

Rachel looks absolutely shocked, her head whipping around to catch Quinn's unflinching gaze. She stamps down the urge to look away, trying to be sincere. Rachel's voice is almost nervous, barely a whisper, "Do you...really mean that?"

"Of course I do." She really does.

Rachel's smile is blinding. "Then what would _you _sing, hypothetically?"

Before Quinn can think about that, too, she's reaching over for her iPod and starts flipping through the songs, her lips pursing together, "I can kind of think of _too many _songs to sing with you." She mumbles, ignoring Rachel's laugh.

"Well, sing me one, then." Rachel whispers, sliding down the bed, one of her hands trailing from Quinn's shoulder down the the small of her back. The blonde lets out a small huff when Rachel peers curiously around her shoulder and she flips around onto her back, thumb pressing hastily against the skip button before a familiar song flashes across the screen and a wide smile breaks out on her face.

"What?" Rachel instantly asks, eyebrows raising.

"Perfect."

"_What_?" Rachel whines and Quinn just laughs and slips out from under the smaller girl's grip, plugging her iPod into the dock on the other edge of the room.

This might break that whole _totally not gay song_ choice thing, but Quinn thinks it's okay, here, between them, because they'll both take it how it means.

The next moment, Quinn reaches forward and grabs her best friend's hands, purposefully singing over the top, practically yelling. "I'm a fooool for you, baby! That's what it takes to get in your mind."

Rachel's eyes grow comically wide, her mouth dropping open in a silent look of something close to horror as she rushes to close her door before her fathers barge in and kill her. Quinn cuts her off before she can get there, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl's waist, halting her in her path, smirking, "I'm a fool for you, baby. It takes a _fool_ to step by."

Rachel's trying not to laugh as she struggles to close her door, yelping and batting at persistent and strong hands, but Quinn just keeps shamelessly belting out the song, "I've been a fool and rippin' 'round the season. Politics, God, and vandalism. I'm a _fool _for you baby! I can't play it cool 'cause I'm a fool for you baby!"

Rachel tries to pout when Quinn twists her around in her arms and starts dancing around the room, a large smile on her face, but she fails miserably. "_Quinn_!" She whines around her laughter, whole body shaking as the blonde twirls her around.

Quinn leans in, as if conspiratorially, and whispers, "I know I'm a fool." She shags her eyebrows and, here, is where Rachel can't help but laugh hysterically, giving up entirely on fighting her friend, and Quinn can see it. "So I'm gonna sing you my foolish song and here it goes!"

When Leroy and Hiram break into the room, providing a very surprising back-up for her best friend, Rachel can't help but hide her face in her hands. "Oh, _God_." She mumbles into the appendages, but Quinn won't let her have it.

_Dong dong dong, a dong dong dong, a diddy-dong dong_

And Quinn, of course, has apparently lost all of her self-worth and is belting out the song like she can't _help _herself. "If the words come out wrong, at least she's not gone." Quinn reaches around Rachel and grabs her hand, swinging their arms around the room as she makes her dance, Leroy and Hiram laughing and dancing with her, harmonizing with her and playing her freakish back-up. Idly, Quinn realizes that this happens in Lima, a lot—people just suddenly like to pop through the door and sing harmonies to songs they probably shouldn't know—but the look in Rachel's eyes makes her keep going.

"I'm a fool for you, baby—don't you break my heart!" Quinn's not sure what made her sing this, so loud and happy and carefree, but the look in Rachel's eyes makes her keep going. She's laughing so hard, the flush on her face so deep, such a _life _in deep brown, that Quinn can't help it.

She falls to her knees dramatically, hands holding onto Rachel's desperately, "I'd jump off the Staten Island Villa if you don't wanna hear it—just call me up and I'll be outta bed in a hurry!"

Leroy and Hiram, now, start laughing with their daughter, who looks half-embarrassed but more than fully amused.

"Waaaaaah, yeah! Baby, I'm a fool for you!" She leaps back up, her eyes catching with Rachel's as she grabs her hands and leans forward, a laugh on the edge of her words. "You're the one who changed my mind. I'm a fool for you baby...I wanna kiss you all the time." Rachel's eyes linger and she pauses for barely a moment before she lunges forward, again, and swings Rachel about the room.

_Bum—bum—bumm, doo doo doo doo_

"I'm a fool—a fool for you, baby! I guess that's just the way it goes. I'm a fool for you baby." Quinn stops and catches her breath, her chest heaving as Leroy, Hiram, and Rachel all laugh heartily in front of her, tears leaking from their eyes. She can't help the wide smile on her face when she whispers, out of breath, words naturally changing, "_You're _the song I call home."

The song's admittedly winded Quinn who, while athletic, hadn't really slept the night before, and Rachel's laughing so hard that she can't really catch her breath anyway. Hiram and Leroy just walk forward and clap Quinn on each of her shoulders, amused, but when Rachel's shining and dazzling eyes meet hazel that's all she can really see. The laughing girl reaches up and shoves Quinn's shoulder before hugging her tightly, their bodies rocking from side to side as they laugh.

"Your enthusiasm is endearing, Quinn." She chuckles into the taller girl's shoulder when her fathers excuse themselves, closing Rachel's door on the way out. They sway a little from side to side, still, their natural rhythm acclimating to the soft, lilting song now coming from the blonde's iPod, a dance mindlessly molding them together, between them.

"Well, you're the one who told me to sing you a song." She protests, still a little breathless, her tone joking. Rachel just pulls back and gives her an intense look that makes her already-failing breath hitch. "What?"

"Nothing I just..." Rachel shrugs a little before she leans back forward, resting her head on the shoulder in front of her, her hands coming up to rest more assuredly on Quinn's hips. Long arms instantly wrap around her in response, brows furrowing but smile easing. "Thanks, I think."

Quinn's wide smile is Rachel's only response and she never sees it because their bodies are too close, pressed together, as they dance to the song surrounding them; Quinn thinks, though, that Rachel can probably feel it, because she can feel _her_ smile, too.

"We're not singing that in Glee club." Rachel adds after the song ends and she pulls away, eyes stern just in case Quinn was serious.

"We're not singing in Glee club, anyways."

Rachel's look is murderous.

"What? I told you I didn't agree."

"So it really _was _hypothetical?" Rachel whines and Quinn just shrugs.

"My answer's still no."

Rachel's response is quite eloquent.

_"GAAAAAAH!"_

Quinn leans forward and barely stops herself from kissing her.

It's Friday night and Quinn doesn't spend two hours in front of her mirror trying to pick out her wardrobe or anything. Seriously.

Okay, she totally does, but she's _nervous_.

This is her first party since..._everything_. This is the first time she'll be...around people...at a party...since...

Everything.

Puck—Beth—Shelby—Rachel—_Russell—_Everything.

It's a Glee party, so she shouldn't be nervous—she shouldn't be nervous for _any _reason—but she knows Puck will be there, so there will be alcohol, and it's _Rachel's_ house so...so this will be the first time she'll be around Puck and alcohol since..._that _time...and this will be the first time she's around Rachel and alcohol, period.

She knows alcoholism runs in her family and everything, but she finds it utterly confusing that she wants to drown her problems in alcohol as much as she's scared to death to even go near the stuff.

She thinks of Rachel and the fact that this is Rachel's first party, and silently vows not to drink.

Well, okay. She vows not to drink unless she has good reason to.


	19. Chapter 19

**Title: **Beers and Strippers

**Chapter: **19/?

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

**Rating: **T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

**Summary: **Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

**A/N: **I decided to just post it as one chapter. Why not? This was written in a very specific way for a reason. Feel free, if you do not enjoy, to go over to the left side of the room.

* * *

><p>Quinn is supposed to be the first person to show up to Rachel's house because she promised she'd be there to ease her nerves (apparently, party-throwing is nerve-wracking) but the outfit-picking kind of threw her off-schedule and she's actually one of the later ones. In fact, the only two people who haven't gotten here, yet, are Finn and Kurt who are probably riding together since they both live together and, honestly, Quinn wouldn't be surprised if Finn just skipped this one (though she wouldn't be surprised if he showed up just to drunkenly serenade Rachel). Even Santana is sitting on the couch with Brittany on top of her, both of them laughing.<p>

"Hey, Girlfriend!" Rachel cheers as soon as Quinn walks around the edge of the stairs and the blonde awkwardly laughs as a small bundle of brunette energy tackles into her and nearly knocks her off-balance.

"Hey there, peppy." She cautiously tries and Rachel just beams up at her, not letting go.

"You're late." Rachel pouts, a frown on her lips and finally she can smell a hint of alcohol on her friend's breath and nods knowingly.

"You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk!" Is her instant response.

"She only had one drink." Puck throws in, smirk in place and Quinn doesn't mind absolutely glaring at him. He throws his hands up defensively, "Hey, woah, she was freaking out about the party and stuff so I just thought it would, like, help and stuff. Chill. She's happy now."

"Yes, _Noah _was the first person to arrive, Quinn, unlike other people—" Rachel guilts, even though her arms are still around Quinn's waist.

"_You_ were the first person here?" This honestly surprises her because, seriously, Puck has rules about this kind of stuff. A "Cool Dude Jew" (self-proclaimed) is to show up at least two hours late with a bunch of booze and sometimes contraband. The fact that he showed up _first _is utterly confusing.

Puck shrugs. "Yeah. I was hungry."

"I fed him." Rachel nods. "_You _could have been fed, too, if you had just—"

Quinn just shrugs her arm out from under Rachel's vice grip and places it unceremoniously on her lips, quirking an eyebrow at her child's father. He shrinks a little under her gaze.

"You gave her alcohol." Quinn's tone is murderous, even if it is quiet, and it's probably a good thing that the rest of Glee hasn't noticed her arrival, yet, due to the alcohol and the music blaring through the basement. Quinn likes Puck _now_, but her last experience with the man and alcoholic beverages—when _alone—_lead to some pretty bad things.

Puck was alone with Rachel. With alcohol.

Puck must follow her line of thinking because his hands shake wildly, still up and defensive, eyes wide, "Woah, woah, no. I mean—not that I wouldn't, because she's totally a slammin' hot Jew—" This isn't the right thing to say. Quinn's hand protectively tightens on Rachel's back, other hand sealing a little hard against her mouth. "Chill, Babe." Puck finally settles on, running a hand through his mohawk. "It was just a small drink. It's not my fault she's a lightweight."

Quinn looks back down at Rachel's intent glare, easing her hand's grip.

"I'm _not _drunk." Her friend petulantly whines through Quinn's fingers and the ex-cheerleader rolls her eyes. "And don't be so discourteous towards Noah, Quinn Fabray. He has been more than a gentleman." Quinn still glares at Puck who lets out a rough sigh and mumbles _whatever _before stalking off. Rachel hits her shoulder.

"Oww. What—"

"Stop being so protective, Quinn." Rachel finally loosens her grip, fingers sliding down Quinn's arms to tangle with her hands. "Come join the party."

"It really is in full swing." Quinn notes, finally looking around the room.

Everyone, it appears, has already started drinking without her.

Brittany has taken to doing shots off of Santana's neck; Artie is beat-boxing in the corner with Mike, who is dancing like crazy; Mercedes and Tina are cheering on Brittany, tossing singles her way; and Sam is belting out karaoke over the sound system. Quinn blinks. Okay, Sam is belting out karaoke with no _shirt _on and a clown wig.

All of these things are new.

Quinn looks over at the clock on Rachel's wall and blinks—seriously, she's only, like, an hour late...how much drinking could they have done?

Rachel tugs Quinn towards the middle of the room, "Yes, with no help from you." She petulantly points out and her best friend rolls her eyes.

"Lay off it, already." She laughs. "I'm sorry." She admits when Rachel twists around, slipping a little, to glare at her, "I lost track of time." She actually just kind of stared at her phone awkwardly for a good hour, after picking out her clothes, but, still, she does feel like a jerk.

"It's alright." Rachel sincerely accepts, eyes bright and Quinn knows she's not really that drunk, in this moment, because her eyes are as clear as a summer's day. "It's better now that you're here, anyways." She bites her lip, "I'd understand if you don't wish to drink. I wasn't partial towards the idea, at first, but it actually is kind of nice." Rachel's fingers play with Quinn's, eyes darting to the side. "It's the first time I've drank, you see."

It's Rachel's first party, too, Quinn knows and she's not surprised that there's alcohol at it since her friend caves so easily to peer pressure. "You don't have to drink, you know." Quinn tries to give her an out. "I won't drink if you don't—"

"I'll feel better about it if you do it with me." Rachel rushes out, like this is a prepared bit of speech and her eyebrow quirks naturally in response. The smaller girl shifts awkwardly, hands dropping. "I mean, that is..." She clears her throat, "It really _is _quite enjoyable and I..." Rachel looks like she's trying to pin down an ideal or a fleeting thought or speech that she'd once had memorized, but it's been years sine she's thought of it. "I don't know. I'd like to share this first with you."

It's a really awkward sentiment to voice out loud and Quinn's throat dries at the idea of sharing any...firsts...with Rachel.

"I mean," Rachel sounds frustrated, shaking her head, "I certainly don't want to take advantage of your hospitality or need to appease. Nor would I wish to take advantage of _you _in your inebriated state," Quinn's not even sure she knows what that one means, "I just want my best friend to do it with me."

"You want me to get drunk with you." Quinn's amused voice asks and Rachel reddens.

"Well, I'd certainly like for your connotations with the notion of drinking to be more pleasant and I think that my drunken company could certainly provide a pleasurable time." Rachel's smile is hesitant and, once more, Quinn kicks herself because her throat goes dry.

She clears her voice, shrugging a little, "Right."

"It's just something I'd like to share with you, I suppose." Rachel finally settles on, eyes genuine and curious, but there's still something like practiced measure behind them. "You certainly don't have to if you do not wish to, but you rarely get to...let your hair down, anymore, so to speak." Rachel shifts on her feet, head ducking before their eyes once more meet. "You're always working," Quinn can't help the way her head nervously whips around to make sure no one's heard her friend and Rachel rolls her eyes, reaching up to tilt her cheek so that their eyes once more meet, "You're always moving and working and doing...things. I know I get to see you at ease but I would be lying if I said that there was no ulterior motive in throwing this party tonight other than celebration."

Quinn's eyes widen before they slit. She's not used to _good _ulterior motives, even from Rachel. Okay, actually, kind of _especially _from Rachel. She doesn't like crack houses. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_," Rachel drawls, sighing roughly, "I did it for _you_. I mean, yes, I'm happy we won Regionals and all that, but you work so _hard, _Quinn, and I don't even know when your birthday is!" She whines, stamping her foot a little, and the blonde shakes her head.

"Okay, I'm a little confused."

"I want you to relax." Rachel says easily, drink obviously loosening the majority of her nerves as her dark fingers come up to play with the curls on the back of her neck. Quinn gulps a little, stomach anything _but _relaxed. "I want you to have a little fun."

"That's a little ironic, coming from you." She jokes, hands hesitating for only a moment before they resume their familiar perch on her best friend's hips.

"Well, it's obviously also for me." Rachel states offhandedly

"Obviously." Quinn smiles.

"I want for both of us to just stop...thinking so much." Rachel says with more than one meaning, eyes shifting down before they slide up to meet Quinn's through heavy eyelashes, and the blonde knows there's more than one ulterior motive at play here. "I want to just have fun with my best friend and if alcohol helps that, then so be it."

"The alcohol was _your _idea." Quinn finally concludes, tone a little incredulous, and Rachel's hands lock behind her neck, the look on her face a tad sheepish.

"Maybe." She concedes.

Quinn laughs. "You're devious."

"I'm the title-holder, remember?" Rachel smirks, eyes twinkling, and Quinn nods, looking down into Rachel's close eyes. "So what do you say, girlfriend?" She repeats the term of endearment and breath is sparse in the waitresses' lungs for a long moment before she nods. Rachel is a little peppy, but she's not nearly intoxicated enough, and it's somewhere between the dangerously enticing look in Rachel's eyes and walking through the front door that Quinn decides that she has a valid enough reason to drink, tonight, earlier vow be damned.

"Alright."

Rachel's victorious smirk is anything but devious but Quinn doesn't care—Rachel Berry isn't the _only _one who can turn a situation to her advantage.

"Quinn!"

"Quinn!"

"Q-Ball!"

"Quinnie!"

"Quintuplet!"

"Q!"

Brittany and Santana must finally notice that Quinn's walked through the door (ten minutes ago) because they're both suddenly shouting at her across the room and the called girl laughs. For a moment, staring at a very-drunk Santana and Brittany brings Quinn back to cheer camp, one summer, and she smiles warmly, tugging Rachel towards the two.

"Do shots off my abs." Brittany inquires.

"Don't you dare." Santana instantly says. "But I'll totally do them off of yours." She smirks, looking between both of them.

"Hey!" The other blonde drunkenly slurs, "That's, like, cheating. You can't be protective if you're just gonna do it anyways."

"Double-standards, B. I gots them."

Brittany huffs. "Whatever. I think—Oh! Oh! Sam! Sing louder, I love this song."

She proceeds to get up and start dancing a little too...saucily for Quinn's (not virgin) eyes and she idly turns to Rachel, who starts clapping and dancing, too, and sends a silent prayer to God.

"Where's that alcohol again?"

For once in her life, she's silently thankful for Puck having the innate talent to materialize wine coolers from thin air.

–

It's around the sixth drink that Quinn realizes that she must be a lightweight because, while it's a little ignorant of her, she never realized how differently different drinks affect a girl of her size.

Two winecoolers and four shots later, she's _definitely _affected, and she's had more than she _definitely _should, and she's _definitely _using _definitely _way too much.

She's also dancing on the table, hands above her head, to a Ke$ha song, all of the Glee club cheering her on. The way Rachel's looking at her only makes her dance harder and when she offers the brunette her hand to join her, she takes it without thinking twice.

Rachel's skin is hot against her own—her hair smells like vanilla and her neck smells like lavender that the smell of alcohol hasn't tainted—her arms are smooth and her breath wispy—her smile large and her eyes dark and carefree—she feels good and fantastic and right and she looks so beautiful and happy that Quinn just pulls her tighter against her.

There's no order, after this—no memory or reason or rhyme or sanity—and Quinn can't remember what goes where.

–

"My spy license!" Brittany shouts and Santana _bellows _and Quinn laughs and giggles when Rachel pulls her down next to her on the couch. Their feet tangle and Rachel's arms wrap around her waist.

"Quinn!" Rachel giggles when the blonde finally settles against her, brow full of sweat and shoulders lacking worry.

"My name's Lucy, y'know." Quinn taps Rachel on the nose, head lolling to the side of Rachel's bare shoulder, her shrug ditched in a time the other girl can't remember. Rachel vehemently shakes her head, knee slipping off the couch and forcing her further into the blonde's side.

"Nuh-uh." Rachel turns around fully, anchoring herself around Quinn's neck. "I think I'd notice."

"Yep."

"Nooooo." Rachel drawls it out like it's the prelude to _Ghost Dawg._ _"_Your name's Quinn Fabray." Rachel slurs when she says this, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "Quinn Fabray." She settles on.

"Yes it is!" Quinn takes offense, frowning. "I mean—it is—but it isn't. It is...n't. It's Lucy."

"Nope."

"Yes." Quinn has to strain to see Rachel's eyes.

"No." Rachel's still shaking her head.

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Cat fight!" Puck hoots from the side and Quinn and Rachel both turn their heads to the side to glare at him. Rachel nearly falls over from the motion but Quinn catches her, both of them pitching forward. Puck raises his eyebrows but doesn't push it further. "Sorry, whatever." He stumbles a little towards the other end of the room.

"I kinda like Lucy, though." Rachel finally decides, turning to Quinn. "_Luuuuuuuucy_." She sings it, giggling. "You're in the sky with diamonds!"

"Shut up." Quinn chuckles, leaning back into the couch, her head too heavy to move. She's heard that enough throughout her young years, she doesn't need her best friend to do it, too. Even drunk, Quinn hates those memories that swim in her vision like Rachel's sort of swimming in her vision, now.

"I like Quinn, though." Rachel nods, turning back to her best friend, hand sliding from her shoulder down to her stomach. "I like you." Rachel leans forward and places a sloppy kiss on Quinn's cheek. "I like Quinn lots." Rachel's not nearly as verbose drunk as she is sober (even though she totally is), but it's still warming to the blonde's heart. It's actually a lot easier to understand her, even so heavily intoxicated, so she definitely thinks it's a plus.

"I like you, too." Quinn beams, arms snaking around Rachel's waist to keep her on the cushions...to keep Rachel against her.

–

"Goodnight." Her breath is husky against her ear and eyes searing.

–

"She's a brick, dun-ah-dun-ah, _hooooouuuuuuse_!" Artie slurs, hands waving wildly in the air as he twirls his shirt around while Brittany pours hot sauce on his head.

"He knows he's not supposed to sing the actual acoustics of the song, right?" Rachel mumbles, giggle on her voice. Quinn shrugs. "You know, at first I thought truth and dare was lame..."

"Now it's totally awesome." Quinn agrees.

They turn together and high-five.

Santana just makes a gagging noise behind their back before screaming, "Don't forget the sex noises!"

Artie huffs before he starts moaning loudly (and somewhat like a little boy who fell off a ladder and can't climb back up).

The pair stiffens.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks, scared, timid, and a little pitiful. Quinn drunkenly pats her cheek, hand slipping down to her chin.

"Just say truth every time it's Santana's turn."

–

"Quinn the good," Rachel smiles, holding out her hand. "Might you escort me henceforth towards my chambers of awesomeness?"

Quinn just smiles, laughing softly, and pulls her in tight, unintentionally twirling until Rachel's pinned her against the edge of the stairs.

They slide down to the cold floor, giggling.

Breath, a pale pair of lips gasping it,

"Don't—"

–

"Stop!" Tina shrieks, all smiles, across the room when Mike bites her ear.

"The only reason she didn't kick her off the team was because, even with a broken arm, Quinn was the biggest _ball-buster _Sylvester had ever seen. She'd make the team run suicides until ten at night and would do them like they were cake." Santana's head is in Brittany's lap and her tone is a little jealous.

"She even made Velma—this really, really smart senior—cry." Brittany's head lolls to the side and Rachel looks back at Quinn, her head on her shoulder, eyes dark, clouded, and curious.

"She, like, never went home, either." Santana grumbles. "It was annoying."

"I _know_!" Brittany gasps, laughing and pointing a finger at Quinn. Santana leans up on her elbows, head pressing against a bare stomach.

"Every day I'd come into school and there she'd be: practicing."

"That sounds _so _unhealthy, Quinn." Rachel chides, eyes searching hazel, and Quinn rolls her own eyes for good measure.

"It's whatever. I was just..." Her eyebrows furrow for a moment before she giggles, "Committed." She finds the idea of commitment a little baffling and hilarious while intoxicated. Santana, however, is still ranting.

"Even with a broken arm she could do a double dismount without even blinking twice. Hands down—chikita tengo _game_." Santana butchers, recounting Finn trying to speak spanish earlier in the night with a drunken smile

Santana, obviously, only gets like this when she's _really _drunk (complimentary and over-flattering) and Quinn rolls her eyes and stumbles over Rachel a little when she tries to grab her friend's drink off the table.

"No more drinks for _you_, Cap'n." She jokes, still trying to reach for the bottle, but Rachel doesn't move from her lap.

"Quinn always liked it better at the school." Brittany's fingers skim up Santana's arm in a droopy, tired slant. "I thought she just, like, lived there."

"We used to call her Kermit the Hermit behind her back."

"That was _you_?" Quinn moans, knocking over the glass onto the floor of the basement. All four of them stare at it for a moment before Rachel bursts out laughing and the rest follow up suit.

–

"Does it hurt?" She asks, eyes imploring and fingers too gentle for Quinn to feel like she deserves them.

"No." She says, shaking her head.

"I meant does it hurt..." She falters, for a moment, filter flickering back on for barely a moment. "Does it hurt to lose a father?"

Quinn shrugs and drops her head into dark skin. "I wouldn't know."

–

"I just mean you should, like, talk to her, Q." Finn slouches way too much when intoxicated and his hand is too heavy on Quinn's shoulder. She shrugs it off. "I know we've got our differences and everything but you should just discuss it with her."

Quinn's baffled for a moment. "How are you smarter _drunk_?" _Differences? Discuss_? The largest words that start with 'D' Finn Hudson knows are probably _Damn _and _Duck_. Maybe, after tonight, 'drunk'.

Finn just looks at her and Quinn, for a moment, hates him. But she's drunk and she remembers when he let her sleep in his bed and he took the floor and he used to sing to her stomach, at night. Her eyes soften and her tongue stings.

_Fuck_ is a lot easier to think when drunk.

"Yeah, sure, Finn."

–

"I got that scar when I was five and Big Jimmy pushed me over on the playground." She looks sad, for a moment, and Quinn delicately pushes the hair further back on her head, leaning in closer than she'd normally let herself to examine. "I was advanced for my age, you see."

"Big Jimmy?" She asks, not too intoxicated enough to think that's a _real _name.

"I know. It's horrible to be bullied by such a Neanderthal." Rachel huffs, eyes dark.

"You never should have been bullied in the first place." Quinn sighs, sad, and Rachel looks into her eyes and leans back.

"I'm thirsty." Rachel whispers.

Quinn nods.

"I'll go get you some water."

–

Quinn throws her head around a little too much and hits it against the lamp (which she doesn't _remember _being there, but thinks that Puck might have moved it when him and Sam put up that home-made water slide).

–

"We'll never talk about this, will we?" She asks, dark eyes imploring and bare shoulders tight.

"I don't know." She replies.

She doesn't.

–

Apparently, large black women _can't _hold their liquor because the skin of Mercedes' back is cool and smooth when Quinn places her hand on it, soothing, other hand sweeping back a stream of black as the other girl bends over and prays to the porcelain gods.

Quinn tells her its okay and holds her when she cries because Mercedes did it for her too many times

–

"Kurt looks lovely in blue, doesn't he?" Rachel sounds so excited that people actually came and Quinn smiles indulgently.

"He looks better in your basement."

–

"I don't give two shits about her!" Puck shouts as he downs a car bomb and Quinn laughs like she believes him.

–

"The nerve he has, really!" Rachel sounds too sad when she's supposed to sound angry.

–

"I think I should stop doing shots off of Mike's abs." Tina whines, head buried in Kurt's lap as the skinny boy hums show tunes.

"Asians so don't have alcohol taller..." Mike's eyebrows scrunch, "Taller-ants."

"Dude, no one cares about ant farms!" Finn shouts, angry, across the room.

–

"I mean, I only talked to him because of _you_." Rachel insists, fingers trailing from Quinn's elbow to her neck. "I didn't even want to." She shakes her head. "All I can remember is how bad it was and I don't want things to be bad anymore. I don't want things to be bad. _I _don't want to be bad." Her fingers are desperate against Quinn's chin. "I don't want to feel like it anymore—like I'm _using_. I just want to be happy. I deserve that, right, Quinn?"

Quinn nods, eyes caught and lips parted.

"You tell me I deserve it but I don't believe you. You look at me like I deserve it but I don't believe you." Rachel's words slur and her eyes are so _sad_. "I want to believe you. I want to believe I can be happy but that...for me to be happy..." She trails off and then decides, "_My dream, _Quinn." She says, like it all wraps up.

Quinn nods, again, eyes holding Rachel as tightly as her fingers against her waist.

–

"Do you think Xavier makes his wheelchair out of, like, military grade shit, or do you just think he imports if from Italy?" Puck asks, arm slung around Quinn's shoulders.

"I wish I could import my chair from Italy." Artie sulks and Quinn shrugs.

"Why don't you?"

"Why doesn't Xavier just use his telekinesis to walk?" Rachel wonders, fingers pulling at Quinn's knee for some reason.

Santana looks like a revelation's hit her. "_This_ is why you're friends!"

Artie just sighs and Kurt perkily tells him they should dance.

"Aww! Like Boq and Nessarose." Rachel coos.

"Boq hated—" Quinn glares down at Rachel.

"This is why _we're _not." Santana continues, tone bored, looking between Rachel, Quinn, and Artie. "Losers."

–

"I mean, you understand, don't you?" Trapped. Suffocated. Yes. She does. "I don't know what to do anymore." Rachel whispers, tone broken and Quinn shakes her head. Their eyes connect and she honestly can't breathe, anymore. "You understand, don't you, Quinn?"

Quinn doesn't have to pretend she does. She nods.

Rachel smiles, eyes full of something Quinn's not scared to recognize, tonight. "You always do."

–

Brittany looks curious as Mercedes sits next to them, on the couch, eyes sunken and face kind of flushed.

"What do taquitos taste like when they're bird food?"

Mercedes just scowls, "Girl, I do not feel good enough for this shit."

Quinn feels like an asshole because she laughs.

–

"I don't know." Quinn downplays. "She's trying." She concedes.

Rachel's fingers cup her cheek and her fingers play through her hair and her eyes are deep—endless—and Quinn smiles.

"You're beautiful, you know." Quinn whispers and Rachel's eyes just search her own, gaze intense and unblinking.

"You _do _want it, don't you?" Rachel asks like a statement and Quinn's tongue darts out between her lips.

–

"I took Rachel shopping last weekend." Kurt conspiratorially whispers against her ear and Quinn's eyebrow quirks and she's honestly trying to pay attention. "You don't like her talking to him, do you?" He asks, tone ever-perky and high and Quinn sighs, looking up from her cup into his sincere eyes. He's too perceptive for her liking.

"Ya think?" Sam grumbles from the chair and Quinn sighs, again, deeper, looking towards her blonde friend who smiles encouragingly at her.

"All I'm saying is that the outfit wasn't for _Finn_, obviously." Kurt points out and Quinn looks back down into her drink, scowling.

She's pretty sure it wasn't for her, either.

–

The bed feels cold when they stumble into it, Rachel on top of her, fingers in her hair and drunken murmurs not as smooth as probably thought.

–

"I'm telling you, Berry. Freddie would kick Hannibal's ass _any _day." Santana insists, shouting.

Rachel is vehement.

Debates, Quinn decides, are not for the drunks.

–

"Therefore, I think Sydney-Beth," Rachel appropriately uses the quiet name, "Will benefit greatly from being at Shelby's house."

"It makes you sad." Quinn points out.

"It makes you sad, too." Rachel rebuts and their eyes connect.

Quinn scoots over.

"I meant it, you know, I really do—"

–

The crashing of glass is too loud in the basement, but they're too loud to hear it.

They laugh and push and sing.

–

"I think _all _of my parents like you more than me." She pouts and Quinn shakes her head, pushing harder.

"I like you more than all of my parents."

Rachel laughs.

–

"This is shit!" Finn growls as his fist slams against the wall and Rachel looks so small behind him and all of Glee instantly moves to stand, even if they wobble a little bit on their feet. Quinn's arms are instantly around her waist, pulling her back, and Sam and Puck are twisting Finn around, and even Santana is asking if the brunette is okay. "I'm not gonna _hurt _her!" Finn shouts and shakes his head.

Rachel shrugs her shoulders and buries her face in Quinn's neck. "He won't." She promises but Quinn isn't sure. "He won't." She says, again, surer.

Puck looks between the two.

"Come on, man, let's get you something to drink."

–

The stairs cut into Quinn's back but not nearly as much as Rachel's fingers do.

–

"I think we should let them sleep." Rachel loudly, drunkenly, whispers into Quinn's ear. Half are passed out and only Puck and Kurt are playing strip poker, still, the karaoke sound system going on in the background. "Everyone's on their side." She assures and Quinn nods.

Sam is still singing Ke$ha.

Rachel's fingers twine with hers and they stumble up the stairs towards her bedroom.

–

"I should plug in my phone." Rachel pouts, looking down at it forlornly.

"You should plug in your _attitude_." Santana counters, hanging off the couch, and Rachel and Quinn just stare at her.

"You're not drunk enough that that made sense, are you?" Quinn mumbles in her best friend's ear. Rachel shakes her head.

"I'm not quite sure. She slurred too much...I...was she even speaking _english_?"

Quinn just shrugs.

–

Quinn giggles when Rachel lands unceremoniously on top of her, both of them sprawled out on the floor on the second landing, wood cold and the star-spangled banner looks somehow funny to Quinn, framed above their heads on the wall.

She starts singing it and Rachel joins her, laughing.

–

"No, Brittany!" Mercedes finally shouts, "Taquitos _suck_. Now lemme alone, you crazy bitch!"

–

"Quinn." Rachel gasps, back arching and fingers clasping into the back of Quinn's shoulder blades. Her name sounds beautiful from Rachel's parted lips and their eyes connect and stay.

Rachel's hands cup her cheeks and their foreheads meet and Quinn whispers it against the last space of breath between them.

_I—_

–

"I should stop before I sing _This Land is My Land_," Rachel giggles, finger skimming down the line of Quinn's cheek to her chin. Quinn giggles with her, catching her finger and pressing the smallest of kisses to it, lips lingering.

Dark brown so beautiful—almost black—so many promises and words and life.

"It wouldn't be a mistake." Rachel recounts from hours and minutes ago and Quinn leans up and she does it. She finally does it.

She kisses her.

–

"I think I might transfer to Dalton." Kurt mumbles, eyes flitting along the side of the wall.

"Why?" Quinn asks and the small boy retreats into himself, taking a dainty sip of his drink.

It's okay. Quinn shouldn't expect him to talk to her when she doesn't talk to him.

–

Rachel tastes like alcohol and promises and something wonderful Quinn's drunken mind can't wrap her head around.

It's more than Quinn's ever felt she'd ever have, in life. Rachel's more than she ever felt she'd have in life.

So she clings to her like a lifeboat right next to the sinking Titanic.

–

"So do you think we'll win Nationals?" Sam asks, excited and eyes bright and drink still somewhat new in his hand.

"I don't really care!" Quinn shouts over the music. She doesn't. "I just want to go to New York!"

Sam looks hopeful and invested, "But we, like, have a shot, right?"

"I don't care!" Quinn repeats, taking a swig of his drink, "I just want to go to New York!"

–

Quinn points up at the star-spangled banner and quirks an eyebrow.

"Metaphors are important." She states easily, eyes dancing, clouded, and Rachel guffaws against her neck before she leans forward and whispers something that Quinn promises she'll never forget, in her ear.

She makes herself, the next morning, even though she never really does.

–

"Fathers suck." Puck agrees, thumb running up Quinn's neck to her ear.

"You didn't." Her head lolls to the side to meet his.

"Maybe I woulda." He mumbles.

"No." She's sure of very few things in her life—but she's sure of this.

"No." Rachel agrees, fingers lazily tightening around Quinn's. "You wouldn't have."

–

_Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_

Teeth bite her ear and fingers scratch down her hips to her lower back.

She sucks on a pulse and holds her head against her own neck when she feels tears sting against the cut on her cheek. She's not sure if the tears are hers or Rachel's and she's not sure she wants to find out.

–

Rachel runs her fingers through her hair as she raises her hands to the sky and smooths her hips through the air like a painter takes a brush to canvas.

The music is loud and Ke$ha is warning all of them that _something's _'bout to blow.

She leans over the couch, eyes half-lidded and dark, voice husky, and smile dangerous. Her arms slip around Quinn's neck and the taller of the two leans further into the couch, breath low. Tanned knees move to either side of her hips and thin fingers move to Rachel's back to keep her from falling backwards, giggling a little as the alcohol gets the best of her.

A pale throat bobs as she swallows, lips dry and eyes dark.

"I told you to just say truth!" Quinn says a little louder than just necessary when a nose is buried in her neck, laughter a low, rumbling sound. The group around them cheers, Puck smirking and Finn taking another shot.

"Wanna hear a secret?" Rachel mumbles, pulling back. Quinn nods. Their noses brush.

"Do it, already!" Santana hoots.

"I don't mind this one."

Quinn's eyes close, fingers slipping and going slack before she gasps and they tighten. Her neck. Her _neck—_

"Right...right th—"

–

"There's so little time." She mumbles into her collarbone, fingers tight and voice frantic, desperate. "There's no time."

"We'll make it." Quinn catches her face and brings it up so she can look at her, both of them blinking and swooning from the adjustment. "Anything."

"Anything." Rachel assents.

–

"I think we'll make it through _anything_." Rachel states proudly, fingers twined with Quinn's and the other girl just smiles widely, nodding.

"Good." She happily states. Rachel tries to tug her towards the stage. "I'm _still _not doing the duet with you, drunk or not." She still-happily-states.

Rachel pouts, then scowls, and stamps her foot before throwing her hands up in outrage.

Quinn just pokes her cheek. "It's okay." She snorts. "We'll make it through this."

Rachel just screams in frustration.

–

Rachel must not have eaten much the day before, because it all looks pretty sparse when she throws it up.

"It's okay, baby." Quinn soothes, hand more insistent than it was on Mercedes' back. "I'm right here."

–

"You want to lick her—" She sounds surprised and a little affronted.

"Tina!" Quinn shrieks, pouting. "I did _not _say that!"

Rachel rolls her eyes, cheeks red. "Perhaps it's not a good idea to play _telephone _while we are all intoxicated." Her fingers are still clasped in Quinn's.

Santana smiles lecherously across the room, "What are you talking about? I think this is _fantastic_."

"I know _I _want to lick—"

"Brittany!" Quinn yelps, face entirely red.

To her horror, Rachel just laughs.

–

"I can't stop." Rachel murmurs, fingers tight and tears too real. "I don't want to stop."

"I know."

"I should, shouldn't I?"

"Maybe? I don't know."

"Do you think we'll make it?"

"I think we'll try."

–

"That's _so _weird!" Quinn shakes her head. "I used to have a doctor named Ryan. I'd never, like, sleep with a guy named Ryan." Santana shakes her head.

"I'm just saying I'd totes sleep with Ryan Gosling." Brittany says, smile too wide and eyes dark.

"_The Notebook _made me cry." Santana admits and Rachel leans her head on her shoulder.

"It made me cry, too." The smaller brunette hums before looking at Quinn. "And it's okay, Quinn, I have a family friend named Ryan. I'd never sleep with him, either."

"I don't wanna sleep with any Ryans, period."

Instead of anyone laughing, all of the girls at the table just laugh and clink their glasses, sloshing a little, giggling _here, here!_

–

"I'm right here." Quinn whispers against Rachel's ear, their bra-clad chests pressed together, breaths panting and lips swollen. "I'm right here." She insists.

Rachel's mouth is insistent and desperate and loving.

"I know."

–

"He was supposed to love me." She mumbles against the edge of the toilet seat as she pulls back dark strands of hair. "I just wanted someone to love me."

–

"Let go." Rachel whispers against her ear and it sounds exactly like it does with the lights pitch black all around them—a stage bare and her toes tied and her eyes closed—and _God_. Oh, _God_. "Let go, Quinn." Her fingers twist and her nails bite and she's crying, teeth biting and knees pulling apart, pushing up and pulling her waist down, and—"For me."

She can't help it, gasping up into her mouth and twisting them, hand pushing up and eyes opening.

She let's go.


End file.
